David Robbins - Houston Run

“Tell them you are under orders to deliver an urgent message to Primator,” Blade directed.

Roger reached out and flicked a silver toggle on the instrument panel.

“Air Traffic Control, this is Androxia Express Number Three. What’s the problem? I am under orders to deliver an urgent message to Primator.”

“Negative,” the speaker cracked. “We have no record of any security authorization for you to land on the Prime Complex. You will abort and return to Central Field immediately.”

Roger flicked off the toggle. “Now what, mastermind?”

“Tell them you received your security authorization at the Intelligence Building,” Blade instructed. “Say you’re carrying the results of the interrogation of the Warriors.”

Roger’s forehead creased in perplexity, his O.D. gleaming. He turned on the silver toggle. “Air Traffic Control, I don’t understasnd any of this. I was handed my security clearance at Intelligence. I was told this must reach Primator promptly, and I was the only one on the helipad at the time. I overheard something about the interrogation results of some Warriors, if that makes any sense. But if you want me to abort, I will do so right away.

Please check and confirm.”

There was a slight pause.

“One moment,” Air Traffic Control said.

Roger switched off the toggle.

“If those jokers check with Intelligence and learn we busted out,” Hickok mentioned, “the jig is up.”

Blade looked at Roger. “Those missiles and lasers on the roof. Will they be activated if we try to land?”

“I don’t know,” Roger said. “It depends on whether they believed my story. They might hold off while they’re checking.”

“Then land! Now!” Blade commanded.

Roger grit his teeth and pulled on the stick, sending the copter into a steep climb, zooming toward the top of the Prime Complex.

“Wheeee!” Hickok cried in delight.

Blade’s muscles tensed as the helicopter swooped upward, closing on the roof. They were approaching from the southwest, and he could see a bulky cannonlike affair, obviously one of the large lasers, perched on the southwest corner. Even as he watched, the barrel of the laser began to shift, to move in their direction.

Hickok had also noticed. “They’re gettin’ our range.”

“Faster!” Blade urged.

Roger pushed the helicopter to its limit, angling even higher. “If we can reach the heliport, we might be safe temporarily,” he remarked. “I don’t think they’ll fire at us while we’re on the roof. There’s too great a risk of an explosion. They’ll probably wait until we lift off again.”

“An explosion from what?” Blade asked. “This copter? I doubt it would put much of a dent in the roof if it’s as sturdy as the rest of the Complex.”

“Not from the copter,” Roger elaborated. “From the refueling tank.”

Blade leaned toward the pilot. “What refueling tank? You didn’t tell us about any refueling tank.”

“Every heliport has a refueling tank nearby,” Roger told them. “Fighting these thermal drafts can make a chopper use up its fuel real fast. The refueling tanks at each heliport are for emergency refueling.”

The courier copter was almost to the roof of the Prime Complex.

Blade’s gaze was glued to the laser. The weapon was continuing to swivel, slanting lower, its barrel resembling a gigantic, elongated tube, tracking the path of the chopper.

“Androxia Express Number Three!” the speaker barked. “You will abort immediately and return to Central Field!”

“Up yours!” Roger muttered.

The chopper swept over the rim of the roof, streaking past the laser on the southwest corner, diving for the heliport.

“We made it!” Roger shouted excitedly.

The helicopter alighted on the heliport.

Blade handed his Gaskells to Hickok, then rose and ran to the sliding door. He yanked the door open and leaped from the chopper, landing on his hands and knees on the concrete heliport. The wind from the main rotor tousled his hair. He saw the metal mail chute to his left. In front of him, about 30 yards from the heliport, was the large oval refueling tank.

To the east, to his right, was the steel door to the stairs.

Move! his mind shrieked.

Blade scrambled to the northern edge of the heliport and dropped to the roof. He circled to the left, to the metal chute. The mail chute was square, about five feet in height, not more than ten inches by ten inches. It was labeled with the word MAIL. He grabbed a small handle near the top, and the door to the chute swiveled open. Moving swiftly, he removed two hand grenades from his right front pocket. He hooked the little finger of his left hand in the door handle to keep the chute door from closing, then quickly pulled the pins and deposited the grenades in the mail chute.

Move!

Blade released the door and whirled, racing toward the refueling tank, mentally ticking off the numbers.

Ten-nine-eight.

Blade pulled another grenade from his pocket as he ran.

Seven-six-five.

He halted, wrenching the pin loose.

Four-three-two.

Blade hurled the grenade with all of his prodigious strength at the fuel tank, then spun toward the chopper.

There was the retort of a muffled explosion from under the roof, and the entire top of the Prime Complex seemed to sway, the roof vibrating violently as smoke billowed from the mail chute.

Blade nearly lost his footings, but he forced his pumping legs to respond, to keep going, racing for the helicopter. He vaulted onto the concrete landing pad, making for the inviting open door. He was only seven feet from his goal when the oval fuel tank detonated. Blade felt an invisible wave of force slam into his back, and he was lifted from his feet and hurled against the copter, sprawling over the lip of the cargo door. He caught a glimpse of a flaming ball spiraling heavenward, and then strong hands gripped his shoulders and he was abruptly hauled into the helicopter as the chopper rose several feet and sped toward the south side of the Prime Complex.

Another tremendous blast rocked the roof.

Blade, on his left side on the floor, saw Roger struggling with the stick as the craft bounced and shook. A brilliant streak of light flashed past the cargo door, and he realized one of the roof lasers had opened up.

The helicopter suddenly banked to the left and dived, plummeting over the south rim of the edifice.

Blade could still see a portion of the roof, and he saw a sheet of red and orange erupt skyward as yet another explosion shattered the southern rim.

Roger was laughing inanely. The chopper leveled off, swinging wide to the west of the Complex.

Blade slowly stood. The top of the Complex was engulfed in flames.

Hickok was lying on the floor near the boxes, several of which had fallen on him when the copter descended. He pushed the boxes from him and rose. “I knew it’d be a piece of cake.”

Blade closed the cargo door, then moved to the front and sat down across from the pilot.

Roger glanced at the hulking figure in the black vest and the fatigue pants. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Blade asked.

“I wouldn’t admit it to myself,” Roger stated, “but I’ve wanted to pay them back for a long time! Telling me I couldn’t get married! The sons of bitches!”

Hickok came up behind Blade’s seat. “How would you like to live somewhere else, somewhere you could marry any woman who’d say yes?”

Roger looked at the gunman. “Are you putting me on?”

“Nope,” Hickok assured the pilot. “We’ll take you there if you’ll help us get out of Androxia.”

“I can help,” Roger said. “If I stay as close to the ground as possible, radar won’t be able to pick us up. They might not find us.”