David Robbins: New York Run

Blade nodded. Why would the Civilized Zone be sending a convoy to the Home? Even in military vehicles, the trip was fraught with peril and not to be taken lightly.

Someone cleared his throat to Blade’s left.

The giant Warrior turned and discovered Plato had ascended the rampart. “What are you doing up here?” he demanded. “You shouldn’t be up here until we signal it’s all clear.”

Plato smiled. “I wanted to see for myself. I know it’s against our rules.”

Hickok grinned. “You’re settin’ a fine example for the munchkins, old-timer.”

“I promise I will leave at the first hint of hostility,” Plato said to Blade.

Blade frowned. “All right. You can stay. But keep your head down!”

The convoy was rapidly closing on the Home. The leading jeep reached the field west of the compound and angled toward the drawbridge.

“Hold your fire!” Blade commanded. He held a Commando Arms Carbine in his hands. Converted to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths, and outfitted with a 90-shot magazine for its 45-caliber ammunition, it was a particularly lethal instrument of death.

“Darn!” Hickok stated. “I was hoping for some target practice.” He hefted the Navy Arms Henry Carbine in his right hand.

The other Warriors were likewise armed and ready. Geronimo carried an FNC Auto Rifle and packed an Arminius .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster under his right arm. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi had his cherished katana angled under his black belt, and held a Heckler and Koch HK93 in his arms. Rikki’s Beta Triad companions were equally prepared: Teucer, the bowman, bore a Panther Crossbow, armed with explosive tips instead of razor-edged hunting points, the camouflage shading of the bow with a pull of 175 pounds complementing his green Robin Hood-like wardrobe; while Yama, one of the few Family members who could claim a physique nearly as superbly developed as Blade’s, carried a variety of weapons. Yama was unique among the Warriors. He’d taken his name on his 16th birthday from the Hindu King of Death, not because he leaned toward the Hindu religion spiritually, but because death was his profession and he was an expert at his craft. At Yama’s insistence, the Family Weavers had made a one-piece dark blue garment with the silhouette of a black skull stitched into the fabric between his wide shoulders to serve as his uniform. He normally used a Wilkinson carbine with a 50-shot magazine, a Browning Hi-Power 9 millimeter Automatic Pistol under his right arm, a smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum under his left arm, a 15-inch survival knife strapped to his right hip, and a curved scimitar in a scabbard on his left.

All of the weapons came from the Family armory in A Block. Kurt Carpenter had meticulously stockpiled hundreds of diverse arms in the huge, concrete structure. Rifles, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, machine guns, and others of every conceivable make and description. He also included at least one of each and every type of weapon he could find, everything from Oriental weaponry such as nunchaku and sai and to American Indian artifacts such as Apache tomahawks. Thus, the Warriors were able to satisfy their personal predilections, whether it was Bowies for Blade, a katana for Rikki, a broadsword for Spartacus (because Ares already possessed the only shortsword), or a tomahawk for Geronimo—the only remaining Family member with an Indian heritage. Whatever their tastes, the armory supplied them. Carpenter had predicted the collapse of civilization after the war, and he knew his successors would require considerable firepower if they were to persevere in a world governed by the basic creed of survival of the fittest.

The convoy stopped, the jeep ten yards from the west wall, and a figure in uniform emerged and glanced up at the Warriors.

Blade felt his muscles relax. The man was an officer, about six feet in height with a lean build. His uniform was clean and pressed, with gold insignia on his shoulders. He had black hair, brown eyes, and rugged, honest features. He was General Reese, the foremost military commander in the Civilized Zone under President Toland.

General Reese waved. “Blade! We need to talk!”

Blade returned the wave. “Hold on! We’ll lower the drawbridge.”

Four Family members quickly lowered the massive mechanism, and moments later the convoy wheeled into the compound and parked near the moat.

“Raise the drawbridge,” Blade instructed Rikki. “And keep your Triad here until we find out what’s going on.”

“Will do,” Rikki said.

“After you,” Blade said to Plato, motioning toward the stairs. He waited until Plato was descending, then turned. “You two stay close to me,” he said to Hickok and Geronimo. “I trust Reese, but you never know…” He let the sentence trail off.

“Don’t fret, pard,” Hickok stated. “You can count on us. We’ll back your play all the way.”

Blade hastened after Plato, Hickok and Geronimo in tow.

General Reese had climbed from his jeep. A dozen soldiers piled from each of the troop transports, and four more from the second jeep. The troopers formed into two rows, standing at attention.

Blade saw a man and a woman step from the general’s vehicle. They wore green uniforms similar to those worn by the Civilized Zone soldiers, but theirs were a darker green and the new fabric clung to their bodies.

Both the man and the woman were well-proportioned, conveying considerable strength in their posture, in the muscular contours of their physiques, and in the alertness of their eyes. Both wore their black hair in crewcuts, and both had pistols strapped to their right hips. Professional military types, obviously, but there was something about them, perhaps in the simple way they carried themselves, serving to set them apart and above the troopers from the Civilized Zone. Neither the man’s square features nor the woman’s angular facial lines reflected any warmth or humor.

“Hello, General Reese,” Blade said as they reached the vehicles. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Blade!” General Reese advanced and extended his right hand. “The same here!” He shook hands warmly, then faced Plato. “And you, sir, must be the Family Leader I’ve heard so much about. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Plato shook hands. “And I have heard about you. President Toland informed me at our last conclave how instrumental you’ve been in assisting in the reorganization of the Civilized Zone government.”

“President Toland flatters me,” General Reese said.

Blade indicated his two friends. “This is Hickok.”

“The famous gunfighter?” General Reese asked.

Hickok’s chest puffed up a good inch. “I reckon my name does get bandied about a mite.” He offered his right hand.

“You Warriors are acquiring quite a reputation,” General Reese remarked.

“And this is Geronimo,” Blade said.

General Reese shook hands. “We met briefly when you were in Denver, remember?”

“You have a good memory,” Geronimo said.

“Well, now that the amenities are over,” Plato stated, “perhaps you will explain the reason for this extraordinary visit?”

General Reese nodded at the man and woman in the dark green uniforms. “First let me introduce you.”

The man and woman moved closer.

General Reese swept the Warriors and Plato with his gaze. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Captain Wargo and Lieutenant Farrow.”

Captain Wargo nodded. “I’ve looked forward to this meeting for some time.” His voice was deep, almost harsh.

“They’re from Chicago,” General Reese revealed.

Plato’s surprise showed. Hickok and Geronimo exchanged glances. Only Blade remained immobile, a statue.

“When did the Civilized zone send an expedition to Chicago?” Plato inquired. “I thought such missions must be approved by the entire Freedom Federation C ouncil?”