David Robbins: Nevada Run

“What have you got there?” Zahner inquired.

“Something that will come in handy when we get to Las Vegas,” Blade said, closing the book. “If we have to go that far.”

“What do you mean?” Zahner asked.

“I want you to take me back to the Home right now,” Blade directed.

“Alpha Triad is going after the ones who took Mindy.”

“You sure Plato will give the okay?”

“Of course,” Blade said. “But even if he doesn’t like the idea, there’s nothing he can do about it. In times of crisis the Warriors are empowered to do whatever is necessary, and as the head Warrior I decide our course of action. Hickok, Geronimo, and I are going after these SOBs in the SEAL.”

“Do you really think you can catch them?” Zahner questioned. “They’ve got a head start and there’s no telling which route they’ll take back to Las Vegas.”

“I don’t know if we can catch up with them before they reach Las Vegas,” Blade stated. “But we’ve got to try for Mindy’s sake. If need be, we’ll go all the way to Vegas.”

“I’d like to go along,” Zahner proposed.

“No,” Blade said flatly.

“Why not? If anyone has a right to go, it should be one of the Clan,” Zahner insisted. “They killed two of us.”

“I understand your feelings,” Blade mentioned. “But Alpha Triad is accustomed to functioning as a team. We can’t afford to be distracted by having to watch out for you or any other Clansman.”

“I wouldn’t get in your way,” Zahner said.

“Sorry,” Blade said, refusing to give in. “But the answer is no.”

Zahner frowned. “Then do me a favor.”

“Anything,” Blade pledged.

“If you find whoever is responsible for killing Faron and Grace and shooting Ted,” Zahner said angrily, “give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“I’ll make them regret the day they were born.”

The SEAL had been the Founder’s pride and joy. Kurt Carpenter had wisely anticipated the deterioration of civilization after World War Three.

He knew society would fall apart at the seams; the government would collapse, social institutions would cease to exist, and the transportation system would crumble. Accordingly, Carpenter spent millions on a special vehicle, a prototype intended to serve his descendants in a world gone haywire. The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle—or SEAL for short—was designed to navigate any terrain. Vanlike in build, the entire body was composed of a shatterproof and heat-resistant tinted green plastic. The floor was an impervious metal alloy. Four huge puncture-proof tires, each four feet high and two feet wide, supported the transport.

Carpenter had also incorporated armaments into the vehicle.

Mercenaries had been hired at great expense. The weapons systems they had installed were activated by four toggle switches on the dash. A pair of 50-caliber machine guns were mounted in recessed compartments under each front headlight, and a miniaturized surface-to-air missile was tilted on the roof over the driver’s seat. A rocket-launcher was hidden in the middle of the front grill, while a flamethrower was situated in the center of the front fender surrounded by layers of insulation.

As its name implied, the SEAL was solar powered. The light was collected by two solar panels affixed to the roof, the energy was converted and stored in revolutionary batteries located in a lead-lined case under the vehicle. The scientists had proudly boasted the SEAL would continue to function for a thousand years provided the solar panels or the battery casings were not damaged.

All of these thoughts filtered through Blade’s mind as he steered the SEAL southward along Highway 93 in northern Nevada. The highway was pitted with wide cracks and potholes, and many sections were buckled.

But few were the obstacles the SEAL couldn’t circumvent, and the past seven days of travel had been relatively uneventful.

A whole week on the road!

Blade was intensely disappointed they had been unable to overtake Mindy’s abductors. He mentally reviewed the events of the week, speculating on what he could have done differently to achieve Mindy’s rescue. Zahner had rushed him back to the Home, and he had informed the assembled Family about the tragedy. After a hasty meeting with Plato and the Elders, it had been unanimously agreed Alpha Triad should proceed after the culprits with all dispatch. The SEAL was always fully stocked and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Alpha Triad, with one addition, had departed the Home within an hour of his return.

But they’d never been able to catch up to the jeeps.

Where had he gone wrong?

Blade had deduced the abductors would not dare to travel in a direct course from the Home to Las Vegas. Doing so would entail driving through the Dakota Territory, home of the Cavalry, and the Civilized Zone—both allies of the Family. The abductors would want to avoid all contact with Federation factions. Which meant the kidnappers either went due south from the Home, hoping to bypass the Civilized Zone, and then swung to the west around Oklahoma or Texas, or else they traveled westward from Minnesota, skirting the Dakota Territory to the north, and then angled to the southwest through the northwest corner of Wyoming, avoiding the Mormons currently in control of Utah, and entering Nevada from the northeast. Blade had opted for the second route.

Acting on the theory the kidnappers would shun all large cities and towns, Blade had stuck to the secondary roads. At settlements along the way he had stopped and asked about the two jeeps. No one had seen them.

Many of the inhabitants of the small towns and communities had fled at the sight of the SEAL or greeted the Warriors with unconcealed suspicion.

But none of them, much to Blade’s relief, had attacked his party. Twice the Warriors had seen bands of scavengers near the road, and three times they had passed mutants, but neither the scavengers or their bestial counterparts had shown any inclination to tackle the SEAL.

A voice intruded on the giant’s reverie.

“How much longer before we reach Las Vegas, pard?” Hickok asked.

Blade glanced to his right. The transport was spaciously designed with two comfortable bucket seats in the front separated by a brown console.

Behind the bucket seats was a single seat the width of the vehicle. The rear of the SEAL was a storage area piled high with provisions, their jerky and water and spare ammunition. In a compartment under the rear section were two spare tires and a toolbox. “I don’t know how much longer,” he replied. “Geronimo has the map. Ask him.”

Hickok twisted in his seat and gazed at the man sitting behind him, one of the two best friends he had. “Hey, you mangy Injun! Wake up!”

Geronimo had been napping with his head resting against the window.

He came instantly awake, his alert brown eyes surveying the highway ahead for any sign of trouble. Powerfully built, he was stocky with black hair and rugged features. He wore a green shirt, green pants, and moccasins. An Arminius .357 Magnum was in a shoulder holster under his right arm and a tomahawk was lucked under his deer hide belt. “What is it, O Great White Idiot?”

Blade, listening to their banter, smiled. Geronimo was rightfully proud of his Blackfoot heritage, and the Indian and the gunman constantly teased one another over their respective racial differences.

“Boy! You sure get nasty when someone interrupts your beauty sleep!” Hickok cracked.

“I’d rather wake up with my wife at my side instead of seeing your ugly puss,” Geronimo observed.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with my face,” Hickok retorted indignantly.