David Robbins - Capital Run

General Malenkov reflected for a minute. “All right. I will give you the benefit of the doubt. For now. Where are you from, Hickok?”

“Montana,” Hickok lied. Actually, the Family resided in northwestern Minnesota.

“You are far from home,” General Malenkov observed.

“We were on our way to St. Louis when your men jumped me,” Hickok detailed.

“Why St. Louis?”

Hickok hesitated. The general had to know about the Civilized Zone.

How much more did the Russians know? Were they aware of the existence of the Cavalry in the Dakota Territory? What about the Flathead Indians or the Moles? “We were sent to see if it’s inhabited,” he said.

“Who sent you?”

“The Government of the Civilized Zone,” Hickok fibbed again.

“I have heard of the Civilized Zone,” General Malenkov said slowly.

“What do you know about it?”

“Not a bunch,” Hickok replied. “I know the Government of the United States reorganized in Denver after the war, and they evacuated thousands of folks from all across the country into the Midwest and Rocky Mountain area. Later it became known as the Civilized Zone.”

“And you do not live there?”

“I told you,” Hickok said, enjoying their verbal sparring, their game of cat and mouse. “I live in Montana.”

“Why would someone from Montana be on a mission for the Government of the Civilized Zone?” General Malenkov asked.

“My people have a treaty with ’em,” Hickok revealed. “They sent us because we have the best vehicle.”

“I was told about your vehicle,” General Malenkov stated with interest.

“A most unusual vehicle too, I might add. Where did you obtain it?”

“It was left for us by the man who founded our Home,” Hickok replied.

“He spent millions building the contraption, then had it secreted in a special vault until we decided we needed it.”

“I intend to retrieve your vehicle,” General Malenkov declared.

“It won’t be easy,” Hickok said. “Didn’t your men tell you about the fight we had with your helicopter?”

“One of our helicopters,” the general corrected the gunman. “Another of our helicopters transported our commando unit to the site and captured you, a larger version than the one you saw. I am having one of our bigger helicopters outfitted to bring your vehicle here.”

“What are you aimin’ to do?” Hickok joked. “Take it apart, fly the pieces here, then put it back together again?”

“No,” General Malenkov said. “Our helicopter will use a winch and a sling and fly it here.”

“Fly the SEAL?” Hickok laughed. “You’re crazy! It weighs tons.”

“The SEAL? Is that what you call it?” General Malenkov inquired.

Hickok wanted to sew his lips shut. Of all the greenhorn mistakes! He’d gone and blurted out the name of the SEAL without realizing what in tarnation he was doing! What an idiot! “Yeah,” he had to agree. “We call our buggy the SEAL.”

“Interesting,” General Malenkov remarked. “And I am not crazy. Our tandem helicopters can transport over fifteen tons. By tomorrow morning, my crew will be at the site. Believe me, our helicopters can easily bear the load of conveying your SEAL. You don’t seem to know much about helicopters.”

“I don’t,” Hickok admitted. “I never even saw one before the fight we had with that copter of yours.”

“Odd. Don’t they utilize helicopters in the Civilized Zone?” General Malenkov innocently inquired.

What was the general up to? Probing for secrets concerning the Civilized Zone’s military capabilities? “I wouldn’t know,” Hickok answered, “I haven’t spent a lot of time in the Civilized Zone. But I did see a flying contraption of theirs once,” he added. “Something called a jet.”

General Malenkov’s interest heightened. “A jet? What type of jet?”

Hickok shrugged. “Beats me. I don’t know jets from turnips. It flew real fast, and it could fire machine guns and rockets.” He didn’t bother to mention the jet had been destroyed, downed in a battle with the SEAL.

General Malenkov and Lieutenant Voroshilov exchanged looks. The obviously considered the news of the jet important.

“Did you see other military hardware in the Civilized Zone?” General Malenkov queried.

Hickok repressed an impulse to laugh. The general was totally transparent; he was milking the gunman for critical tactical information.

But why? Were the Russians planning to invade the Civilized Zone? If so, why now? Why had they waited so long after the war? “I saw a heap of trucks and jeeps and a tank,” Hickok stated.

“Do you know any more?” General Malenkov goaded him. “How large a standing Army they maintain, for instance? What shape their weapons and equipment are in? Where their outposts are situated?”

“Nope,” Hickok replied. “Like I told you, I haven’t spent much time in the Civilized Zone.”

General Malenkov studied the gunman for a moment. “You said your people live in Montana?”

“Yep,” Hickok said, confirming his lie.

“Do they have a name?”

“No,” Hickok fibbed again.

“What about the name of the town you live in?” General Malenkov pressed the issue.

“We don’t live in a town,” Hickok said, telling the truth for once. “We have our own compound and we keep pretty much to ourselves.”

“Could you pinpoint its location on a map?” General Malenkov asked.

“Sure,” Hickok responded.

“We will bring one here later,” General Malenkov informed him.

“Do you mind if I ask a question?” Hickok politely inquired.

“What is it?” General Malenkov asked.

“Who are you guys? Where do you come from? And where am I?”

Hickok swept the medical room with his right hand. “Where is this place?”

General Malenkov nodded. “Fair is fair,” he said. “You have answered me, so I will answer you. Perhaps you will the better understand the nature of your dilemma, and you will realize why resistance is futile. You must continue to cooperate with us. You have no other choice.”

Hickok sat up on the metal table.

“As you have undoubtedly guessed,” General Malenkov declared, “we are professional soldiers in the Army of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”

“You’re a long ways from home too,” Hickok quipped.

General Malenkov paused. “True,” he said sadly.

“We are far from the Motherland.” He sighed and stared at red drapes covering one of the walls. “As to your location,” he said slowly, “a demonstration will be far more eloquent than mere words.”

Lieutenant Voroshilov and the third soldier moved aside, clearing a path between the metal table and the drapes.

General Malenkov beckoned toward the drapes. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

Hickok slid from the metal table. He noticed the general had placed his Colt Pythons on a wooden stand about four feet from the table.

“Open the drapes,” General Malenkov directed the gunman.

Hickok walked to the right side of the drapes and found several cords descending from the traverse rods. He gripped the first cord and pulled.

Nothing happened.

Hickok tried the second of the three cords.

The drapes didn’t budge.

What the heck was going on here? Some of the cabins at the Home were outfitted with drapes, and he knew how to work them. He pulled on the final cord.

With a swish, the red drapes parted, opening wide, revealing a picture window and a spectacular view.

It took a minute to register. Hickok had seen pictures of the scene in the photographic books in the Family library. But he’d never expected to actually be there.

It was impossible!

It just couldn’t be!