David Robbins - Armageddon Run

Move! his mind screamed.

Geronimo rose and threw back his right arm, intending to lob the charge directly at the group nearing the house.

Hickok, on his stomach at Geronimo’s feet, detected a motion out of the corner of his left eye. He twisted, surveying the yard below, and even as he did he heard the crack of an M-16.

There was a trooper not more than five yards from the house!

Geronimo felt the bullet rip into his left shoulder, and he was slammed backward by the impact, crashing into the window and tumbling to the balcony.

Hickok aimed the Henry and fired, putting a slug into the soldier below.

The other troopers began shooting at the balcony.

Geronimo, his senses swimming, gaped at the charge in his right hand.

The fuse was continuing to crackle and sparkle.

Dear Spirit!

Geronimo struggled to rise, to get rid of the dynamite. His body refused to cooperate with his dazed mind.

Hickok was conducting a raging gun battle with the enemies below.

Geronimo shook his head to clear it, and managed to laboriously lift himself to his knees. The strain of his exertion prompted a surge of dizziness to engulf his consciousness. Unable to control his equilibrium, he pitched forward, the fuse over half gone.

“Lordy! What in the world is that thing?” Bertha exclaimed in alarm.

Blade, squatting alongside of her behind a low stone wall not far from U.S. Highway 85, recognized the vehicle from photographs contained in several of the military history books in the Family library. “It’s called a half-track,” he told her.

“I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it!” Bertha declared nervously.

“The Doktor’s pulling out all the stops,” Blade commented.

Bertha was gawking at the green half-track. “I think we’d best go get the SEAL!”

The armored half-track was slowly proceeding north on U.S. Highway 85 toward Catlow. Its rear caterpillar treads were clanking and creaking.

At least six soldiers were riding in the open back section, one of them manning a mounted machine gun.

“We’ll try and take it out with our charges,” Blade stated.

Dozens of troopers and G.R.D.’s were following the half-track on foot.

“It ain’t gonna be easy,” Bertha predicted.

“You never know until you try,” Blade declared.

The stone wall was 20 yards to the west of the highway.

Bertha removed a bundle of dynamite from her pillowcase. “It’s kind of far to throw one of these suckers, isn’t it?”

Blade frowned. She was right. The bundles weren’t very heavy, but they were ungainly and would be difficult to pitch any great distance with any degree of accuracy. What else could they do? He stared at the half-track, at least 400 yards from their position.

“I still think we should get the SEAL,” Bertha stressed.

Blade gazed over his right shoulder. A yellow wood frame house was 15 yards behind them. He shifted his attention to the north. There were two more homes between the stone wall and the downtown business district of Catlow, a collection of a dozen or so brick buildings including a small store, a pharmacy, a clothing establishment, and other retail enterprises.

The small store caught his eye.

The structure was two stories tall, with the bottom half devoted to perishable foodstuffs and the upper portion, according to a large sign on the building, a hardware emporium with the “greatest selection in Catlow.” Of course, the sign neglected to mention it was the only hardware selection in Catlow.

“Follow me,” Blade directed. Keeping low, stooped over at the waist and ignoring the agony lancing his left side, Blade ran in the direction of the business district.

“Not so fast!” Bertha complained. “You know I got a bum leg!”

Blade mentally chided his stupidity and slowed.

“That’s better,” Bertha whispered. “You don’t want me to get any madder at you than I already am!”

Blade waited until they were out of sight from the highway and moving down an alley behind the stores before he asked the obvious question.

“Why are you mad at me?”

Bertha snorted. “Don’t play innocent with me, turkey! You knew I wanted to pair off with White Meat! But, no! I get stuck with you!”

Blade grinned. “You have only yourself to blame for not being with Hickok right now.”

They reached the rear of the establishment Blade had been heading for.

“How do you figure?” Bertha challenged him.

There was a wooden door before them.

Blade drew up his right leg and lashed out with his foot, striking the door near the doorknob. The oak splintered and shattered and the door swung open several inches. He pushed the door aside and walked into a dark hallway leading to the front of the building.

“How do you figure?” Bertha repeated.

Blade moved along the hall until he came to a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor. “We’re friends, Bertha,” he said as he started up the steps. “I don’t want to see you killed.”

“Oh? I’d have a better chance of gettin’ racked with White Meat than I do here with you?” Bertha asked, disputing him.

“Yes,” Blade stated frankly.

“How so?”

They reached the top of the stairs and found aisle after aisle of merchandise.

Blade gazed at the ceiling, wondering if the structure would have the feature he required.

It did.

In the middle of the room was a trap door to the roof.

Blade hurried toward it. “Bertha,” he said over his shoulder, “I’ve seen the way you look at Hickok—”

“Brother! First Rudabaugh and now you!” Bertha said interrupting him. “Does everybody know?”

“Probably,” Blade replied. “You don’t exactly hide things well.”

“I don’t believe in beatin’ around the bush,” Bertha said.

“We know it,” Blade assured her. “I can imagine how you feel about him. I don’t think you’ve accepted his marriage, and possibly you never will. But that’s rightfully none of my business—”

“You bet it ain’t, sucker!” Bertha snapped.

“Unless it falls within my province as a Warrior and the head of this mission,” Blade elaborated. “If I sent you out with Hickok, and the two of you came under fire, you’d be so worried about protecting him, about making certain he wasn’t hurt, you’d undoubtedly fail to watch out for yourself.”

“I would not,” Bertha protested, but her tone lacked conviction.

“And I was born yesterday,” Blade cracked.

They reached the aisle under the trap door. A piece of rope about a foot long was attached to a handle in the door.

Blade jumped up and caught the rope in his right hand. He yanked, and the trap door swung open.

“How we gonna get up there?” Bertha wanted to know.

There was a four-foot space between the top of Blade’s head and the opening.

The Warrior glanced around the room and spied a display of stepladders two aisles over. “Wait here.” He jogged to the rack and returned with a six-foot ladder.

“What are we gonna do once we’re up there?” Bertha inquired as he quickly unfolded the step-ladder.

“Play it by ear.” Blade began climbing the ladder.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Bertha mumbled, staying on his heels.

The roof was flat and rectangular. A large metal antenna was situated a few feet north of the trap door. The surface of the roof was coated with a peculiar sticky black substance.

“What is this?” Blade asked, noting how the coating stuck to his hands and fingers where he touched the roof.

“Beats me,” Bertha responded.

A brick rim, standing about twelve inches high, completely encircled the roof.