David Robbins - Denver Run

What had the book said?

He vaguely recalled a mention of an object known as a clutch. But where would you find a clutch in a tank? Did a tank even have a clutch?

What were those funny pedals on the floor?

Hickok cautiously placed his right foot on one of the pedals. He depressed the pedal and the motor suddenly revved even louder, but the tank still didn’t move.

Blast!

Annoyed, his right foot continuing to press on the pedal, Hickok pounded on the nearest lever. “Piece of junk!” he shouted, aggravated by his apparent failure.

Without any warning, and before the gunman quite knew what was happening, the tank unexpectedly lumbered into motion.

Backwards.

Straight backwards.

Toward the moat.

Hickok frantically jerked on the lever, striving to halt the huge behemoth in its tracks. The rear end suddenly tilted downward at a sharp angle, throwing the gunman from his tenuous seat onto the floor. A hard object gouged him in the back, between his shoulder blades. He scrambled onto his stomach and clawed for the lever as the front section continued to elevate, slanting the floor at a 45 degree angle.

The engine was sputtering.

Hickok’s fingers were inches from the lever when the tank’s movement abruptly ceased.

The motor had died again.

Hickok froze, listening. He debated whether to start the engine and drive the tank forward. The task would be a piece of cake now that he knew how to operate the lever. All he had to do was move the lever in the opposite direction. He grabbed for it under the false assumption the tank was perched on the bank of the moat.

He was wrong.

Water gushed over the rim of the open hatch, splashing over the gunman’s head, cascading into the tank.

Hickok gawked at the hatch in astonishment.

He wasn’t on the bank!

He was in the blasted moat!

The water was gaining in volume and intensity as the tank resumed its backward slide.

Hickok stood, resisting the pummeling of the water, and jumped toward the opening. His hands briefly clutched the edge of the hatch, but the surging water and the slippery metal conspired to knock him to the floor before he could climb from the vehicle.

Four inches of water already covered the floor of the tank. Additional gallons poured in every second.

Hickok leaped for the hatch again, and missed. He sputtered as the falling water struck him in the face, filling his inadvertently open mouth.

This was another wonderful mess he’d gotten himself into!

The steel colossus was still inching backwards into the moat.

Hickok determined to try one more time before there was too much water accumulated inside the tank and his movement was impaired. He grit his teeth and vaulted toward the hatch. His fingers gripped the edge, and he clung to the opening as the water battered his soaking body.

He had to hang on!

The force of the water was increasing.

Over six inches covered the floor.

Hickok felt his fingers beginning to slip. He tried to clamp down tighter on the hatch, but his fingers couldn’t apply any more pressure.

If he didn’t make it this time, he wouldn’t get another chance!

Hickok attempted to pull himself up through the hatch, but the water resisted his every effort, a liquid wall of immeasurable pressure, an irresistible force impossible for one man to overcome.

But not two men.

Hickok was clinging by his fingertips, about to drop to a watery doom, when a pair of strong hands grabbed his wrists. He could feel his benefactor straining to haul him to safety. Hickok took a gamble. His rescuer would need some help. The gunman swung his legs to the left, pressing his feet against the side of the tank for extra support, and pushed, releasing his hold on the hatch as he did.

The gambit worked.

Hickok’s momentum, added to the heaving of his helper, carried him up and through the hatch. He sprawled on the top of the tank, his legs within the tank, and glanced up.

“This is getting to be a habit,” Spartacus remarked. He was standing on the forward section of the tank, which was still above the water line.

Hickok coughed and pulled himself from the hatchway.

The tank was lowering even further into the moat.

“Let’s get off this thing,” Spartacus suggested. He turned and sprang to the inner bank, not two feet from the front of the vehicle.

Hickok coughed as he slid below the cannon to the only portion of the tank clear of the water. He rose to his knees.

“Hurry it up!” Spartacus cried, waving him on. “It’s going down!”

Hickok nearly lost his balance and pitched into the moat as the tank abruptly lurched to one side. It was all the incentive he needed. His legs uncoiled under him and he bounded to safety on the bank.

“It looks like it’s hit bottom,” Spartacus commented.

Hickok, bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees, his breathing labored from his exertion, stared at the tank.

The armored titan had finally come to rest on the bottom of the moat.

The water covered about two-thirds of the vehicle, including the top hatch. Most of the cannon and the rest of the front was angled upward only a couple of feet from the inner bank.

“Pretty slick move,” Spartacus mentioned.

Hickok, certain his ears were waterlogged, glanced up at his friend.

“Huh?”

“Pretty slick move,” Spartacus repeated. “It almost worked perfectly.”

“It did?” Hickok absently said, wondering what in the world Spartacus was raving about.

“Sure,” stated his companion. “How were you to know the water would rush in there so fast? But I still think it’s a great idea, blocking the entrance the way you did.”

Hickok gazed at the moat, his eyes widening in amazement. He had managed to sink the tank directly in front of the drawbridge.

“I never would have thought of it,” Spartacus admitted. “I’ve got to hand it to you. This way, even if they breach the drawbridge, they’ll have to go around the tank to reach the compound. It’ll slow them up considerably, and we’ll be able to pick them off. Great move!”

“Thanks, pard,” Hickok mumbled.

“I guess you couldn’t figure out how to use the cannon, so you decided to do the next best thing, right?” Spartacus inquired.

“It was a mite more complicated than I thought,” Hickok admitted.

“Weren’t you worried you’d drown?” Spartacus asked.

“Worry? Me?” Hickok chuckled. “I knew it’d be a piece of cake.”

“He’s coming around,” Rikki-Tikki-Tavi declared. “Finally.”

The Imperial Assassin opened his brown eyes, his head throbbing. He was lying on the grass in the center of a small park, completely surrounded by his enemies. Someone had removed all of his weapons and stripped off his black mask. His aching right knee was in a splint.

“We didn’t think you’d pull through,” Blade said. He stood next to the Assassin’s left shoulder. “Rikki kicked you a little harder than he thought. You’ve been out over twenty-four hours.” Blade squatted, then reached down and took hold of the Assassin’s curly brown hair. He brutally tugged on the Assassin’s hair, compelling the prisoner to rise to a sitting position.

“Hey!” the Assassin snapped. “That’s my hair!”

“Would you like to keep your hair?” Blade demanded harsly.

“What do you mean?” the Assassin replied.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Blade stated, “and I want an honest answer to every one.”

“I’m not telling you a damn thing!” the Assassin retorted.

“I don’t have time to play games with you,” Blade told him.

“You can’t make me talk!” the Assassin defiantly exclaimed.