David Robbins: Liberty Run

“What then?” Plato asked.

“I sent Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin on ahead. They can move a lot faster than we can. They caught up with three Russians, trying to cart Sherry off.

Two of the Russians were killed, but we do have an officer prisoner. That’s about it,” Blade succinctly concluded.

“And Sherry?”

“We’ll know in a minute,” Blade said.

They hurried toward C Block.

“What do you think Nathan will do if Sherry has been harmed?” Plato asked, referring to Hickok by the name his parents had bestowed upon him at birth. Each Family member, on their 16th birthday, was formally rechristened during a special Naming ceremony. Kurt Carpenter inaugurated the rite. The Founder had worried that subsequent generations might neglect their historical antecedents, might forget about the history of humankind and the factors leading up to World War Three.

Carpenter had tried to insure his followers never lost touch with their roots. He had persuaded them to have their children search the history books, and when the young men and women turned 16, they were permitted to select the name of any historical figure they admired as their very own. This practice became known as the Naming, and it survived Carpenter’s death. The Family expanded on it, allowing the youths to take a name from any book in the library. Compliance was not mandatory, but most members adhered to the observance. A few retained the names given them by their parents. Even fewer created a new name of their own. In every case, the name chosen was supposed to reflect the personality of its holder. Thus, 16-year-old Nathan became Hickok. The strapping Michael picked an entirely new name, predicated on his preference for edged weapons, and became known as Blade. Lone Elk became Geronimo.

Clayton became Plato. And 16-year-old Chang, aspiring to achieve perfection as a martial artist and devoted to the ideal of conserving spiritual value and protecting the Family, became Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.

“I expect Hickok will declare war on the Soviets,” Blade predicted.

“At least they would be evenly matched,” Plato commented.

They reached the enormous concrete block and entered the front door.

Only five people occupied the building. Seated on a cot to the right of the entrance was the Russian officer. Geronimo stood three feet from the cot, his .357 trained on the officer’s head. Dozens of cots, aligned in two rows, filled the middle of the infirmary. Medical cabinets were dispersed at prudent intervals. On one of the cots in the center was Sherry. Beside her knelt Hickok. Standing on the far side of the cot was one of the Healers, a brown-haired woman dressed in white.

Blade walked over to Sherry’s cot. “How is she, Nightingale?” he asked the Healer.

“I can answer that for you,” Sherry unexpectedly responded, and sat up.

“I’m fine,” she told Blade.

Hickok held up a white cloth smelling of chloroform. “Geronimo found this in one of the bastard’s pockets. I reckon they wanted her alive and unhurt. Thank the Spirit!”

Sherry stared into Blade’s eyes. “I let everyone down. I’m sorry.”

Blade knew what she meant. “You were ambushed and outnumbered.

There was no way you could have prevented the deaths of Jean and Claudia.”

Sherry frowned, her profound inner turmoil evident. “Yes, there was,” she said slowly. “I sensed something was wrong. I should have acted differently.”

“Believe me,” Blade assured her. “No one will blame you for what happened.”

Sherry’s green eyes mirrored her emotional agony as she replied. “Yes, there is someone. Me.”

Hickok glanced up at Blade, his mouth downturned.

“I need to interrogate the Russian,” Blade said. “But I want to talk with you about this later. All right?” he queried Sherry.

Sherry nodded. “I’ll come see you,” she promised.

Blade smiled encouragingly, then turned, Plato still at his side.

“Sherry is adversely affected by her experience,” Plato commented when they were beyond hearing range.

“I know,” Blade agreed. “We’ve both seen the same symptoms many times before. If she doesn’t conquer her doubt, if she doesn’t realize she didn’t fail in her duty, she’ll be washed up as a Warrior.”

“Curious, isn’t it?” Plato thoughtfully remarked. “A Warrior can be in superb physical condition, can be supremely skilled with a variety of weapons and in hand-to-hand combat, and yet, if the Warriors lacks the proper mental attitude, all the conditioning and skill in the world are wasted.”

Blade nodded. They were nearing the Russian’s cot. The officer was glaring at them. This one wasn’t going to be easy to crack. Drastic measures were called for. “Has he given you any trouble?” Blade asked Geronimo as they reached the cot.

“He’s been a good little boy,” Geronimo answered. “From the way he’s been squirming, I think he needs to go potty.”

“Is that right?” Blade asked. “Would you like to relieve yourself?”

The officer nodded.

“Tough,” Blade snapped, and before anyone could gauge his intent, before Plato could hope to stop him, he lashed out with his right fist, catching the officer in the mouth and sending him head over heels from the cot.

“Blade!” Plato yelled.

Blade stepped over the cot and reached the officer while the Russian was still on his knees. He flicked his right foot up and out, connecting, slamming his instep into the Russian’s ribs, knocking the officer onto his hack.

“Blade! Stop!” Plato cried.

Blade’s left hand grabbed the gasping officer under the chin. He squeezed and lifted, his arm bulging, hauling the Russian from the cement floor and into the air.

Plato went to grip Blade’s arm, but Geronimo quickly stepped between them, shaking his head.

Blade drew his right Bowie and pressed the tip into the Russian’s genitals.

The officer squirmed and thrashed, wheezing, his eyes bulging.

“Now that I’ve managed to stimulate your interest,” Blade said, “I’m going to tell you how it is.” He paused, his gray eyes boring into the officer’s. “You killed two of my Family, you son of a bitch! I’d end your murderous career right now, but I need information. So here’s how it is. I’m going to ask you some questions. If you refuse to answer them, you’re dead. If you hesitate, you’re dead. If I suspect you’re lying, you’re dead. You can tough it out and die, or you can cooperate and live. If you follow me so far, nod.”

The officer nodded. Vigorously.

“Good. I want you to think about something. If you refuse to answer, if you value loyalty more than your life, no one is ever going to know how brave you were! Your buddies, your comrades, will never know how you died! You’ll have died in vain! Think about it. And about this. If you cooperate, I’ll give you a canteen and some jerky and let you go. My word on it. We’ve released prisoners before. We’re not butchers, like you. We don’t kill innocent women. But, as the Spirit is my witness, I will gut you like a fish if you don’t give me the answers I need.” Blade unceremoniously dumped the Russian on the cot.

The officer landed on his left side. He coughed and sputtered, rubbing his neck, gaping at the giant Warrior.

Blade held the right Bowie out, slowly moving his wrist back and forth, allowing the light to gleam off the blade. “What’s your name?”

“Lysenko,” the officer instantly replied. “Lieutenant Frol Lysenko.”

“Why were you sent here?” Blade demanded.

“To capture one of your Family alive and transport them to Washington,” Lysenko responded.

“How were you going to get back?” Blade asked.

“By helicopter,” Lysenko said.