David Robbins - New York Run

“Except for one small detail,” Blade said.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“We’ve never operated the SEAL in its amphibious mode,” Blade told the Technic.

Wargo snickered in disbelief. “Yeah. Sure.”

Blade stared at the officer.

Captain Wargo did a double take, examining Blade’s features. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Would I lie to you?” Blade stated in mock earnestness.

“You’ve never operated the SEAL in the amphibious mode!” Captain Wargo reiterated, upset by the news.

“Is there an echo in here?” Geronimo queried.

Captain Wargo unexpectedly pounded the dashboard in anger. “Damn it all! We’ve come so close! We’re almost to our goal!” He glared at Blade.

“Do you realize how much trouble we went to, how much time and manpower was expended to reach this point? Getting you and this vehicle to Technic City? Managing to reach this far? Did you know the Soviet line was only five miles south of us? Sometimes we were less than a mile from their northern perimeter. And we made it past the towns and the mutants and everything else!” His voice started to rise. “I don’t care if you’ve never operated in the amphibious mode before! Because we are not, I repeat, not going to give up now! Not when we’re so damn close! We will adhere to the Minister’s schedule.”

“Your plan sounds okay to me,” Geronimo interjected.

Wargo glanced at the Warrior skeptically. “It does?”

“Sure.” Geronimo smirked. “I can swim.”

Captain Wargo made a hissing sound. He faced forward, then suddenly stabbed his right index finger straight ahead. “There! That’s it!”

“What?” Blade asked.

“There! Turn left there!” Wargo cried.

“Where?” All Blade saw was a crumpled roadway, dense foliage to the right, and an embankment to the left.

“There! Damn it! Turn left now!” Wargo shouted.

Blade complied, wrenching on the steering wheel, sending the SEAL to the left, up and over the embankment, hurtling down a steep slope toward a… river! He slammed on the brakes and the transport lurched to a skidding stop on the grass-covered bank.

“I must be dreaming,” Geronimo said in an awed tone.

Blade gazed at the vista beyond in sheer astonishment. It wasn’t the bank or the blue river causing his stupefication; it was the eerie panorama on both sides of the river to the south.

“That’s the Hudson River,” Captain Wargo stated.

“And what is that?” Blade asked, indicating the wrecked landscape stretching to the far southern horizon.

“That,” Captain Wargo said soberly, “is what’s left of New York City.”

Blade had never seen anything like it in all his journeys from the Home.

He’d encountered ravaged towns and cities, dozens of them. But he’d never been this close to a city struck by a thermonuclear device, and the impression was instantly seared into his mind’s eye. The material he’d read about World War III, the many stories he’d heard over the years, even knowing the mutants and the mutates were by-products of the conflict, none of it had prepared him for… this!

How could it?

Even here, even 20 miles from the heart of New York City, the devastation was awesome. Every building in sight, every former residence or office structure or retail establishment, had been destroyed. Most were mere piles of litter and debris. A few retained one wall, a small minority two walls. It looked as if a gigantic windstorm, a tremendous cyclone of inconceivable magnitude, had ripped into every building and literally blown them apart.

“It got to me the first time I saw it,” Captain Wargo confided.

Blade tore his eyes from the desolation. “Got to you? You never mentioned being here before.”

“Once,” Wargo confirmed. “Shortly before I entered the Civilized Zone to find your Family. I was here on a reconnaisance mission for the Minister.”

“How far did you go?” Blade asked.

“This far,” Wargo said. “But I was told it gets worse the further we go.”

“How could it get worse?” Geronimo wondered aloud.

“There’s one way to find out,” Blade said. He looked up at a control panel imbedded in the roof above his head. The SEAL’s Operations Manual had been explicit in detailing the proper operation of the control panel. Unfortunately, he’d never had the occasion to test the instructions.

Plato had been reluctant to operate the SEAL in the amphibious mode.

What if it sank? he had speculated to the assembled Family. They could not afford to lose the transport, and their timid attitude had restrained them from verifying if the vehicle could function on water as well as land.

Now they had no choice.

Blade reached up and flicked a silver toggle switch. He waited a few seconds until he detected an audible “thunk” from underneath the carriage. With painstaking care, his nerves on edge, he slowly eased the SEAL down the bank to the edge of the river, then braked.

“What are you waiting for?” Captain Wargo demanded.

“We could all end up at the bottom of the Hudson,” Blade commented.

Captain Wargo drew his pistol. “And where do you think you’ll wind up if you don’t keep going?”

Blade shifted his right foot to the accelerator, gently applying pressure.

The SEAL slid into the river.

Blade quickly raised his right hand and deftly punched two buttons. For a moment nothing happened, but then the SEAL bucked in the water and a loud clunking emanated from the rear of the transport.

“What’s happening?” Captain Wargo asked nervously.

“I closed the wheel ports before we entered the Hudson,” Blade replied.

“The tires have just retracted and been elevated above the water line. That clunk you heard was the outboard dropping from under the storage section.”

“What’s next?” Wargo inquired.

“Just this,” Blade said, and flicked a second toggle switch.

From behind and under the SEAL came a muted sputtering and metallic coughing, followed by a steady throbbing.

“Hey! The water back here is churning!” the soldier in the rear of the SEAL yelled.

“Is that the outboard motor?” Captain Wargo asked.

“What do you think?” Blade answered.

The SEAL was moving forward, plowing through the water, bearing due east.

Blade turned the steering wheel, gratified when the bulky transport angled to the south.

“We did it!” Captain Wargo said, elated. “The thing is working!

Nothing will stop us now!”

“Aren’t you forgetting the Zombies?” Geronimo remarked.

“The Zombies!” Wargo snorted. “We’ll make mincemeat out of them.

Here. Let me show you.” He motioned at the trooper in the rear, and the soldier lifted an automatic rifle from the pile of supplies and passed it to the front.

Geronimo’s eyes widened when he saw the gun.

Captain Wargo took the piece and hefted it in his hands. “Have you ever seen a beauty like this?”

Blade glanced to the right, getting his first good glimpse of the automatic rifle. He nearly betrayed his bewilderment. The gun was a carbon copy of the one taken from the man caught spying by the Moles.

The same 20-inch barrel and folding stock, the same short silencer and elaborate scope, the same 30-shot magazine.

“Is something wrong?” Captain Wargo asked suspiciously.

“No. Why?” Blade responded.

“I don’t know.” Wargo shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.” He stroked the rifle. “Isn’t this a beauty?”

“Where did you get it?” Blade innocently inquired.

“We manufacture them, of course,” Captain Wargo said. “They are standard gear for every Technic soldier. They’re state-of-the-art, as far as automatics go. Called the Dakon II. They fire four-hundred-five grain fragmentation bullets. They’ll drop anything!” he boasted.