David Robbins - Capital Run

Voroshilov considered the question for a while. “I see no reason why I can’t tell you. The information isn’t classified, and you won’t live to pass it on.” He thoughtfully stared at the closed cargo bay doors. “We lost touch with our motherland thirty years ago.”

“What? You’re kiddin’,” Hickok said.

“I do not jest,” Voroshilov stated bitterly. “The war took its toll on our country too. It depleted our natural resources and restricted our industrial capability. The non-Russian peoples in the U.S.S.R., the ones who always resented our superiority and our control, saw our weakness and decided the time was right to throw off their yoke. The Baits and the Mordivians, the Udmurts and the Mari, the Tartars and the Kirgiz, and many others rose in rebellion.” He stopped, his face downcast.

“And what happened?” Hickok goaded him, stalling. The longer he could keep the lieutenant talking the further they would get from Washington and the more likely a chance would develop to make his play.

“We don’t know,” Voroshilov said sadly.

“You don’t know?”

Voroshilov sighed. “During and right after the war, thousands of our troops were sent to America, to invade and conquer the capitalistic pigs.

Our forces took over a large territory in the eastern U.S., but we did not have enough supplies and men to continue our push to the north and west of the Mississippi. Our drive through Alaska and Canada was stopped in British Columbia by the worst winter they had there in centuries. Over the decades, we have consolidated our domination of the American area we rule. Until thirty years ago, we maintained contact with the motherland.

We knew the rebellion there had reached a critical stage. Then the shortwave broadcasts stopped. Cryptographic communications ceased.

Every ship we sent to investigate failed to return. Our forces in America found themselves isolated, cut off from our motherland.”

“Hold your horses,” Hickok interjected. “You say you lost contact with Russia thirty years ago?”

“Yes.”

Hickok pointed at the five soldiers on the opposite bench. “Then where the dickens did they come from? They sure don’t look over thirty to me.”

“They are not,” Lieutenant Voroshilov replied. “Since we could not replenish our forces from the motherland, we’ve established a system of modified racial breeding.”

“I don’t follow,” Hickok said.

“We impregnate selected American women,” Lieutenant Voroshilov stated. “Their children are turned over to us for training and education.

Our indoctrination is quite thorough. Russian history and values are stressed. Communism, of course, is exalted. The result you see before you.

Soldiers every bit as Russian as if they had come from the U.S.S.R., and fluent in English and Russian.”

“Where do you get these American women?” Hickok asked. “Do they volunteer?”

Voroshilov snickered. “They cooperate whether they want to or not.”

Hickok ruminated on the revelations he’d received. The information explained a lot. Like, why the Russians had not invaded the Civilized Zone, why the Reds hadn’t taken over the whole country. Simply because they lacked the manpower and the resources to achieve it. “How much of the country do you have under your thumb?” he ventured to ask.

Voroshilov reflected for a moment. “Let me see if I can remember the names of the states involved. New England we control,” he said, “and southern New York, southern Pennsylvania, Maryland, New Jersey, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, portions of Illinois, Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia. We also have sections of North and South Carolina under our hegemony. We wanted to subjugate all of the Southeast, but the Southerners are a most hardy, independent lot. They resisted us every foot of the way and stopped our advance, leaving us the Northeast and a wide corridor in the middle of the East.”

Hickok stared at Voroshilov. “I can’t get over you tellin’ me all of this.”

Lieutenant Voroshilov grinned. “As I said before,” he stated, “you won’t live to pass it on. General Malenkov will not treat you so lightly the second time.”

Hickok idly gazed at the five troopers on the other wooden bench, and at the sergeant, standing to the right of Voroshilov. The five had relaxed their guard and lowered their weapons, but the sergeant still covered him with an AK-47. He needed to stall some more, and hope he had a chance to go for his Colts. “You said there were several reasons why you’re not takin’ me straight back to Washington,” he reminded the lieutenant.

Voroshilov nodded. “Time is of the essence. We must reach your vehicle as quickly as possible, before your people can remove it.”

“You still think you can tote the SEAL to Washington with this contraption?” Hickok smacked the metal side of the copter.

“Easily,” Lieutenant Voroshilov bragged. “We will dig a small trench under your vehicle, and then slide our sling underneath. Once the sling is secured, our helicopter will lift the vehicle into the air and transport it to General Malenkov.”

Hickok thoughtfully chewed on his lower lip. If the Reds could do what they claimed, it would be a piece of cake to lift the SEAL into the air, then lower it again on its wheels. Hmmmm.

Lieutenant Voroshilov stood. “I must rejoin our pilot. You will be removed at our first refueling stop and held there until our return trip. We will pick you up and carry you to Washington for your rendezvous with General Malenkov and the KGB.”

“Do you mind if I take off this uniform?” Hickok asked. “I’ve got my buckskins on under it, and I’m sweatin’ to beat the band.”

“As you wish,” Lieutenant Voroshilov graciously offered.

Hickok started to tug on the uniform shirt.

Lieutenant Voroshilov turned to the sergeant. “Did you find any weapons on him when you searched him?”

The sergeant blinked twice, then cleared his throat. “We did not search him,” he confessed. “He did not appear to be armed—”

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Lieutenant Voroshilov spun, hoping his premonition was inaccurate. Instead, he saw his worst fear realized.

Hickok had pulled the uniform shirt from his pants, exposing his buckskins. And also exposing the Colt Python revolvers tucked in his belt.

But even as the uniform shirt came clear, his hands streaked to the pearl-handled Magnums, his draw an invisible blur.

The sergeant awoke to the danger first, and aimed his AK-47 at the gunman’s head.

Hickok was already on the move, rising and stepping to the left, putting a few extra feet between Voroshilov and himself. His right Python boomed, and the sergeant’s face acquired a new hole directly between the eyes.

The sergeant was thrown backward into a pile of crates by the impact.

Lieutenant Voroshilov went for his pistol, his arms seemingly moving at a snail’s pace compared to the gunfighter’s.

Hickok crouched and whirled, the Colts held at waist level, his elbows against his waist, and they thundered simultaneously.

Two of the five soldiers on the opposite bench were slammed into the wall of the craft, their brains exploding from their heads in a spray of red and pink flesh.

The remaining three were bringing their AK-47’s to bear.

Hickok’s next three shots sounded as one, his aim unerring, going for the head as he invariably did.

One after the other, the three Red soldiers died, each shot in the forehead, each astonished by the speed of their adversary, each overcome by their own sluggishness.

Lieutenant Voroshilov, in the process of drawing his automatic, realized the futility of the attempt and darted forward instead, his arms outstretched.