David Robbins - Liberty Run

Blade took a left.

“Uh-oh,” Sundance commented.

Five hundred yards to the southeast was a huge stone wall, 15 feet in height, capped with another 4 feet of barbed wire. A latticed iron gate, now closed, provided the only means of entering the Ministry. Four soldiers stood outside the gate.

Blade spotted a turnoff to the right and took it. The jeep lurched as he spun the steering wheel sharply, and then they were on a quiet side road.

A stand of trees and brush screened the jeep from the guards at the iron gate. He braked the jeep.

“Now what do we do?” Sundance inquired.

“We proceed with the mission,” Blade said.

“But how do we know this jerk was telling the truth about this place?”

Sundance asked. “How do we know it’s even a detention facility? Bakunin never said the Vikings were here for sure.”

Blade glanced at the Russian. “No, he didn’t. But so far, all the directions he’s supplied have been right on the mark. Oh, he lied about who he was and lied to gain our confidence. But he told the truth about the garrison in Norristown, and about how to get to Norristown from Valley Forge. He didn’t want us to know he was a soldier, didn’t want us to discover his secret before he discovered ours, so he gave us accurate directions, expecting us to trust him, hoping we would blurt out the information he wanted. He couldn’t come right out and say he definitely knew where the Vikings were being held, because that would have been too obvious, too suspicious. But he could, and did, give us a viable lead. I could be wrong, but I think he was telling the truth about the Ministry.

The Vikings might well be there.”

Sundance nodded toward Bakunin. “What do we do about him?”

Blade studied the captain. The wisest recourse was to kill Bakunin and dump his body in the weeds. Leaving the Russian alive needlessly invited trouble. If they tied him up, Bakunin might escape and alert the Ministry guards. A true expert could always slip free of constraints if given enough time. Blade seriously considered slitting Bakunin’s throat, but then his conversation with Plato concerning excessive brutality flashed through his mind and he frowned. “We’ll tie him up,” he stated.

“You’re the boss,” Sundance said, “but if it was up to me, I’d waste the son of a bitch right now.”

Blade nodded. “I agree with you.”

“What? Then why are we going soft on him?” Sundance responded in surprise.

“It’s something Plato said,” Blade revealed. “About us not stooping to their level.”

“Plato isn’t a Warrior,” Sundance stated cryptically.

Blade knew Sundance was right, but he didn’t want to debate the issue.

His affection for his mentor overrode his seasoned inclination. Just this once, he told himself, he’d do it Plato’s way. Give Plato’s outlook a chance.

And hope he wouldn’t live to regret it.

But he did.

“We don’t have any rope,” Sundance mentioned.

“We’ll improvise,” Blade said. He slid his right Bowie from under his shirt.

“What’s that for?” Bakunin asked when he saw the big knife.

“I thought I’d carve my name on your forehead,” Blade quipped. He shifted in his seat, examining its fabric. The back of the seat was covered by a leather-like, durable material. He inserted his knife into the fabric and began slicing wide strips from the seat.

“Cup your hands together and hold your arms out toward Blade,” Sundance directed the captain.

Bakunin complied.

Blade swiftly bound the Russian, applying the strips to the officer’s wrists and ankles, cutting additional strips as needed.

“You are cutting off my circulation,” Bakunin said at one point.

“Should we cry now or later?” Sundance retorted.

Blade applied two strips around Bakunin’s mouth, effectively gagging the Soviet officer. “This should keep you comfy until we return.” He eased his Bowie under his shirt.

Bakunin’s eyes were simmering pools of hatred.

Blade accelerated, seeking another turnoff. He found a field after driving 60 yards, an overgrown patch of weeds and brush to his left, and he angled the jeep into the densest undergrowth. He stopped when he was satisfied the jeep was concealed from passersby on the road. “This will suffice,” he announced, and switched off the ignition, placing the keys in his right front pants pocket.

Sundance replaced his Grizzly under his shirt. “What’s our first move?”

he queried as he buttoned up.

“We’ll see how close we can get to that wall,” Blade said. “Check out the layout.”

Sundance grabbed his FN 50-63 and exited the jeep.

Blade verified the strips binding Bakunin were tight, then patted the captain on the head. “I want to thank you for your assistance. We couldn’t have done it without you.” He chuckled.

Bakunin vented his anger in a string of expletives, his words muffled by the gag.

“Be nice,” Blade baited him. “And make yourself right at home. We’ll be back in a bit.” He climbed from the jeep, clutching the Commando in his right hand.

Sundance was waiting at the front of the vehicle.

Blade took the lead, moving off into the brush, heading for a row of trees close to the wall. Bright lights were discernible through the trees.

A tinge of faint light rimmed the eastern horizon.

“We’ll have to hurry!” Blade remarked. “Dawn isn’t far off.”

Sundance nodded.

The two Warriors jogged to the row of trees and took cover behind two maple trunks, Sundance to Blade’s right.

Blade peered around the bole of the tree, scanning the landscape ahead.

A field, 20 yards in width, separated the trees from the stone wall.

Brilliant spotlights were attached at regular intervals along the top of the wall, aligned toward the field. A half-dozen towering structures reared skyward on the far side of the wall.

Sundance uttered a low whistle.

Blade glanced to the right.

Two soldiers were strolling along the base of the wall, AK-47’s slung over their shoulders, coming toward the Warriors.

Blade ducked from sight. Gaining entrance to the Ministry promised to be extremely difficult. Crossing the field unseen, if guards were posted on the wall, would be impossible. And sneaking in the front gate was a ludicrous notion.

Or was it?

Blade waited until the two guards passed and were 50 yards off, nearing the gate. He waved to Sundance, then followed the guards, staying behind the trees.

The guards ambled at a leisurely pace.

Sundance caught up with Blade. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

“There’s no way we’ll get over that wall,” Blade responded. “Not with all the lights and the barbed wire and the guards.”

“So how do we get inside?”

“I’m working on that,” Blade informed him.

The pair of patrolling guards reached the gate and halted, engaging the quartet of soldiers already there in conversation.

Blade edged to within 20 yards of the front gate, then squatted in the shelter of a large oak.

Sundance joined the head Warrior.

The light on the eastern horizon was increasing.

Blade scrutinized the wall, at a loss for an idea to penetrate the Ministry’s defenses.

A muted rumble sounded from the northwest.

Blade glanced over his left shoulder.

A truck was slowly approaching the gate, still about 400 yards distant.

Blade squinted, striving to identify the truck. He wasn’t worried about being observed by the truck’s occupants; the trees were plunged in murky shadows.

The truck drove nearer.

Blade perceived the truck wasn’t a military vehicle. It was white, with a small cab and a square body.

The truck was 350 yards off.