David Robbins - Citadel Run

“You remember those? The four switches we could never use because Plato didn’t know what they were used for and didn’t want us to accidentally damage the SEAL?”

“I remember them,” Joshua confirmed.

“Good. That one with the M next to it is the toggle switch for the fifty-caliber machine guns hidden in recessed compartments under each front headlight. Throw that switch and a metal plate slides up.”

“What then?”

“The machine guns automatically fire. So don’t bump that switch while I’m out taking a leak!”

“I’ll try not to.” Joshua grinned.

“The second switch, the one with the S, controls a dingus called a surface-to-air missile. This thing is mounted in the roof above the driver’s seat. We can use it for, oh, taking care of loud-mouthed blackbirds or knocking nuts out of trees.”

“You’re putting me on,” Joshua said.

“Would I do that?” Hickok retorted. “Anyway, that next toggle has an F for flamethrower. This doohickey is behind the front fender, right smack dab in the center. It spits flame balls about twenty feet.”

“You’re kidding?”

“That’s what they told me,” Hickok said. “That last switch there has an R for rocket launcher. This sucker is above the flamethrower, in the middle of the front grill. We found a whole room full of ammunition and rockets and tanks for the flame-thing and more instructions.”

“If you have it memorized,” Joshua stated, “then we should be all set to go.”

“Who said I had it memorized?” Hickok replied testily.

“I recall seeing some books in our Library about military hardware,” Joshua said, his brow furrowed. “Weren’t those missiles and rockets and the like all big things? How can they fit in the SEAL?”

“What’re you thinking of?” Hickok cracked. “A rocket to Mars? The missiles and stuff in this buggy are all miniaturized. I read once that right before the Big Blast, the scientists had refined the technology to where a terrorist could stick a nuclear device in his pocket. Imagine that.”

“You don’t suppose the Founder placed a nuclear device in here, do you?” Joshua innocently asked.

Hickok promptly sat back in his bucket seat. “Never thought of that.”

He studied the dash. “Naw. No way. We’d know it if there was one.”

“We didn’t know about the missiles and the rockets,” Joshua said.

Hickok was about to reply when a commotion near the stockade caught his attention. “Well, look at that!”

Joshua looked in the same direction. “What’s going on? It sounds like gunshots?”

“Blade.”

“How can you know that?”

Hickok glanced at Joshua. “You’re the Empath. You tell me who it is.”

“I can’t right now,” Joshua said. “I require quiet if I’m to receive psychic impressions.”

“You won’t be getting any quiet for a spell, pard,” Hickok informed him. The gunfighter started the engine and flicked on the headlights.

“What are you doing? They’ll see us now!”

“Don’t matter,” Hickok stated. “Fun time is here!”

“Fun time?”

Hickok drove from the trees onto the road. “We’re going to show these jokers what Warriors are made of!”

“What can I do?” Joshua nervously inquired.

“Sit back and relax. The SEAL’s body is bulletproof, so I doubt you’ll be hit. The Founder said the tires on this crate are almost indestructible, made of some kind of synthetic gunk. This’ll be a piece of cake!” Hickok said, elated.

Joshua slumped in his seat. “Dear Father,” he silently prayed, “please preserve your children in this time of combat…”

Hickok crossed the road and floored the accelerator.

“…and guide our souls during this tribulation. We do not want to do this…”

“Let’s get these turkeys!” Hickok shouted.

“…but remain, as in all matters, ever subject to your will. Amen.”

The SEAL was barreling toward the stockade at fifty miles an hour.

“Do we have a plan?” Joshua thought to inquire.

“This is it!” Hickok yelled, his excitement and enthusiasm overflowing.

“It’s them or us!”

Joshua shook his head. “Dear Spirit!” he whispered to himself. “I’m stuck in a vehicle of war with a crazy person!”

Blade heard a sudden outburst of automatic fire coming from the north, and the next instant the ground shook from a tremendous explosion. The ring of boots surrounding the troop transport dissipated, soldiers running every which way, orders being shouted, men shrieking and screaming as the firing attained a virtual crescendo.

What was going on?

He hastily crawled to the edge of the first truck and peered out, witnessing a scene of madness and devastation.

Smoke was everywhere. Army troopers were dashing back and forth and firing into the smoke almost at random. The northern sentry tower was in flames.

Blade eased from under the protective shelter of the truck and looked around. None of the soldiers were in his immediate vicinity. The machine-gunner in the western sentry tower was shooting at a target in the smoke.

What?

The smoke abruptly parted, revealing the SEAL in all its glory, its fifty-caliber machine guns blasting as it circled the area west of the stockade, mowing down soldiers in droves.

Hickok.

Blade rose and ran toward the tent. The Family gunman was deliberately drawing their fire, forcing the troopers to devote their complete attention to the SEAL, and judging by the volume of gunfire his plan was successful.

With one notable exception.

Blade was only three feet from the tent when the smoke briefly cleared, and there, standing in the opening, the Commando in his hands, was Colonel Jarvis, his features contorted in rage.

No time to turn aside and no place to hide!

Blade dove, his long arms outstretched, even as Jarvis spun, bringing the Commando up.

“Bastard!” Jarvis bellowed.

Blade crashed into the furious officer and they both slammed into the tent, into the table, upending it. They rolled on the ground, Jarvis gripping the Commando and striving to smash the stock against Blade’s head.

“Bastard!” Jarvis repeated, his voice harsh, his eyes bulging, his veins prominent on his forehead. “Bastard!”

Blade found himself flat on his back, with Jarvis on top, the officer bearing down for all he was worth.

Where was that green blanket?

To his right or his left?

Blade heaved, his rippling muscles flinging Jarvis aside. The colonel struck one of the chairs and crashed to the ground.

Now!

Blade rolled to his right, his anxious fingers closing on the green blanket and lifting, and there they were, glistening in the light from the overhead lantern, his prized Bowies. Jarvis had removed them from their sheaths, apparently to admire their craftsmanship, and left them lying with the other weapons instead of resheathing them. A minor oversight, but a fatal one.

Colonel Jarvis had scrambled to his knees, the Commando leveling, as he twisted toward Blade, his finger already on the trigger.

Blade grabbed the handle of one of his Bowies and tried to rise to his knees.

Too late.

Jarvis had the Commando pointed at the Warrior’s huge chest, a sneer on the officer’s face.

Blade tensed, expecting the slugs to rip through his body.

“I was wrong about you,” Jarvis taunted, reveling in his victory. “You’re not my equal! You’re just like all the rest! Uncivilized swine! Any last words for Samuel?”

Blade stared down the Commando barrel, wondering. Was it possible?

“I have some last words for you,” he told Jarvis.

Jarvis was surprised by the statement. “For me? What?”