Citadel Run Page 12

  “I have my sources,” the driver divulged. “Anyway, since we’ll have the night off, why don’t we visit this little lady I know? She’ll give both of us a tumble at a discount.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “What’s the matter with you? Got the jitters over a broad too? Don’t worry. She gets herself inspected at the clinic once a month, just like the Government says she should. I’m tellin’ you, we can have a blast! She has the biggest…”

  Yama flattened, ruminating on the significance of the information he’d learned. As part of his campaign to reconquer the territory formerly held by the United States of America, Samuel was gearing up for a major thrust against the Cavalry in South Dakota, against the only ally the Family currently had in their struggle to resist Samuel and the Doktor.

  The Cavalry must be warned! But how?

  The flatbed was gaining considerable speed.

  From the comments made by the blabbermouths, Yama gathered the Army was utilizing outdated equipment, possibly even from before the Third World War. Why would the Government be using such antiquated hardware? Didn’t the Civilized Zone have the factories necessary to produce new military equipment? Was their problem a lack of manufacturing capability, or did it go deeper than that?

  Could it be a lack of natural resources?

  Yama mentally reviewed the area encompassing the Civilized Zone. He knew it embraced the former states of Kansas, Nebraska, probably most or all of Wyoming, Colorado, eastern Arizona, New Mexico, Oklahoma, the northern half of a state once called Texas, and, now that the Flathead Indians were eradicated, most of the state of Montana as well.

  Quite a large tract.

  But what sort of natural resources was available? The Government would need certain types of metals to build tanks and cannons and such, right? Were those metals available in the Civilized Zone?

  Yama grinned.

  Possibly, just possibly, he’d stumbled over information crucial to the Family’s future.

  Possibly, just possibly, Samuel and the Doktor weren’t as militarily strong as everyone thought they were.

  And hopefully he’d discovered the chink in the Civilized Zone’s armor.

  Yama raised the tarp and peered out.

  The convoy was only a mile from the Citadel, according to a sign at the side of the highway.

  Would every vehicle be checked as it entered the Citadel?

  Before departing the Home for his spying mission to the Citadel, Yama had visited the enormous Family Library and researched every book he could find on the region, and specifically on Cheyenne. Unfortunately, Cheyenne, Wyoming, after World War III, was a vastly-altered city from the one existing prior to the Big Blast. The tremendous influx of refugees and evacuees, combined with the necessity for improved security and fortification, had drastically transformed Cheyenne into a veritable fortress.

  The Citadel.

  Within minutes, the first line of defense was in sight, and Yama was awed by the structure.

  The Army Corps of Engineers had erected a massive stone and mortar wall completely enclosing the city. The wall stood forty feet high and was three feet thick. Perched atop this wall were numerous gun emplacements and observation towers, enabling the soldiers to see for miles in every direction on a clear day. Four iron gates were established as the only entry and exit points, one such gate being positioned in the middle of each wall.

  The Army had hoped their huge wall would withstand a sustained mass assault, an assault which never came.

  Cheyenne had been spared a direct strike from a nuclear weapon, and the anticipated Soviet land attack had failed to materialize. In fact, surprisingly, the entire Civilized Zone had been spared from a Red invasion. No one knew why. There were unsubstantiated rumors the Russian Army had indeed invaded and occupied much of the eastern half of the country, its advance inexplicably halted at the Mississippi River.

  But these reports were unconfirmed, because the patrols sent east to verify them never returned.

  The convoy turned right onto another road. The sign at the junction revealed they were now traveling on College Drive.

  Yama craned his neck and peered up at the huge wall looming above them. College Drive was immediately outside the wall. According to the intelligence he’d received, Yama knew the wall extended to the west several miles, completely enclosing the Francis E. Warren Air Force Base and the United States Experimental Station within its confines. The northern boundary of the wall was once known as Four Mile Road, and the eastern perimeter was only two miles beyond North College Drive.

  The first of the flatbeds reached the iron gate in the center of the southern wall. All of the flatbeds slowed and braked while the driver of the first truck conversed with one of the guards stationed at the gate.

  Yama glanced over his left shoulder, gratified to discover the nearest traffic behind them was at least a half-mile to their rear.

  “…love coming up here,” the driver was saying. “Denver makes me feel so cramped, so crowded all the time. At least here you have some elbow room.”

  What was he talking about? Yama wondered.

  “Yeah,” concurred the passenger, “I hear tell they only have one hundred thousand or so on the graveyard shift. Imagine that! I’d like to move here, some day, if the Housing Authority will allow it. The wide open spaces appeal to me.”

  “Me too,” echoed the driver.

  Yama crawled forward and risked a peek around the corner of the cab.

  The first flatbed was still stopped at the gate, the driver joking and laughing with the guard.

  How much longer would they dally at the gate? Time was a crucial factor; he had to be out of the Citadel by daylight. He might be able to roam the city undetected at night, but Yama doubted he’d pass a close scrutiny in the light of day.

  The first flatbed gunned its motor and drove into the Citadel.

  Yama smiled. The Spirit was smiling on his enterprise. The guards were not bothering to check the flat-beds, and why should they? The Citadel had never been attacked nor the Civilized Zone invaded for over a century. Why should they expect any trouble now?

  The second flatbed was passing through the massive gate.

  Yama ducked and scurried under the tarp, pulling it over his head and holding the Wilkinson close to his chest. A moment later, the last of the flatbeds moved slowly forward.

  Yama could feel the truck sway slightly as the driver turned left to enter the Citadel.

  “Hey! How ya doin’, Buck?” asked the driver.

  “Fine. You got time for a brew or two?”

  “Sorry. Not tonight.”

  “Catch me next time, then.”

  Evidently the driver knew one of the guards.

  Yama counted to twenty and elevated the edge of the tarp.

  They were inside the Citadel!

  The flatbeds were driving north on a wide avenue, a thoroughfare packed with vehicles, again the majority of them military. Running along both sides of the avenue were sidewalks crammed with people. Yama realized the population density in the Citadel must be staggering. As a Warrior, when at the Home, he was obligated to work day shifts, evening shifts, and graveyard shifts on a rotating basis, and he deduced the same practice prevailed here. This made his task easier. In a crowd like this, he should be able to travel unchallenged.

  The convoy kept bearing north for some time, its progress impeded by the crush of traffic. Finally, the flatbeds turned right on Pershing Boulevard.

  Yama tensed.

  They were almost there.

  The Biological Center. The domain of the malevolent Doktor.

  One of the Doktor’s creations, a genetically spawned creature named Gremlin, had defected to the Family and provided extensive details on the interior of the Citadel. Gremlin had argued with Plato concerning the wisdom of sending a Warrior on a spying mission to the Citadel, contending the Warrior would never make it out of Cheyenne alive. Once convinced that Plato could not be dissuaded, Gremlin had
then warned Plato that the Warrior should avoid the Biological Center. “At all costs, yes?” Plato had passed on the admonition to Yama after the Warriors had drawn lots to determine which one of them would perform the spying mission; Yama had drawn the short straw.

  And there it was! Rising seven stories high, situated to the west of the V.A. Hospital, constructed of a black synthetic substance, rose the Biological Center. As with the rest of the Citadel at night, it was plainly illuminated by the dozens and dozens of street lights and spotlights positioned at periodic intervals. On the north, west, and south sides of the Biological Center were enormous parking lots, and the Army was assembling its forces on these lots in preparation for the assault against the Cavalry in South Dakota. Row after row of vehicles lined the parking areas; all of the jeeps, troop carriers, supply trucks, and others were gathered for the invasion.

  The flatbeds pulled into a lot on the west side of the Biological Center and parked in a row near the south side of the lot.

  Yama eased under the tarp and waited. He heard the driver and his companion exit the flatbed, slamming their doors and engaging in idle discussion as they walked off. In the near distance rose the sound of the vehicle traffic on the streets and avenues of Cheyenne. He also could hear someone shouting, although the words were indistinguishable.

  As silently as possible, the Warrior slid out from under the tarp and crawled to the edge of the flatbed. The parking area was well lit, but he was concealed in the shadow of the missile launcher. He gazed around.

  The parking lots were apparently deserted, except for the vast array of military equipment.

  Yama dropped to the tarmac and walked around the cab of the flatbed.

  Where was everyone? Indulging in a last fling before the war against the Cavalry?

  Yama was amazed at how lightly the Army seemed to take its opposition. How could they afford to be so confident?

  Whoever was doing all the shouting was still at it.

  Yama casually strolled in the general direction of the Biological Center.

  He recalled Gremlin’s warning and promptly disregarded it. The Biological Center was the Doktor’s base of operations. In it, the Doktor produced his genetic deviates, his league of killers and monstrosities. From it, the Doktor exerted a profound, terrifying influence over the entire Civilized Zone. The Doktor, so the story went, was almost as powerful as Samuel the Second. Some claimed he was the real power in the Civilized Zone, that Samuel ruled as the Doktor’s puppet.

  Whatever the case, Yama thought with a grin, it was imperative to include the Biological Center in his scenic tour of the Citadel.

  The Warrior had already passed several rows of trucks and was stepping into an open space between the rows when the voice assailed him.

  “Hey! Hold it!”

  Yama stopped, the Wilkinson at his right side.

  “Hey! I’m talkin’to you!”

  Yama turned, fingering the trigger on the Wilkinson.

  Five soldiers were standing fifteen yards away, behind a supply truck with its tailgate down. One of them held an M-16.

  “You hard of hearin’, fellow?” demanded the trooper with the M-16.

  “My ears function perfectly,” Yama replied, stalling, his eyes darting right and left as he scanned for other soldiers in the vicinity.

  “What are you? A smart-ass?” The trooper advanced on Yama.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I trust you’ve enjoyed your meal?”

  “My compliments to your cook. What was it? I’ve never tasted meat quite like it before.”

  Colonel Jarvis leaned back in his wooden folding chair and placed his hands over his slightly paunchy belly. “You’ve never eaten steak before?”

  Blade, seated across from the officer at a small table in his tent, stared at the bone on his paper plate. “The Family normally consumes venison. Once, years ago, one of our horses was struck by lightning and we all had horse meat for several meals in a row. But I’ve never had meat like this. What animal was it from?”

  “A cow.”

  “Did you bring the cow from Denver?”

  Jarvis laughed. “No. Cattle are roaming loose all over the place. There’s a big herd not more than ten miles west of the Twin Cities. I had some of my men bag one this morning. Rank does have its privileges, you know.”

  “So I see,” Blade acknowledged.

  Colonel Jarvis reached into his right shirt pocket and removed a thin cigar. “Care for a smoke?” He extracted a box of matches from his left pocket.

  “No. I don’t smoke.”

  “Of course. Ever the noble Warrior, eh? I’d imagine you don’t have too many vices, do you?”

  “Why should I? Vices impair your effectiveness and inhibit spiritual communion with our Creator. None of the Family smokes or drinks alcohol, although I understand both practices were widespread before the Big Blast.”

  “The Big Blast?” the colonel repeated. Then he nodded. “Oh. I forgot. That’s how your people refer to the Third World War. Cute. But let me ask you something…” Jarvis said, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the Warrior, “about this Creator business. Do you really mean to tell me you believe in a God?”

  “You mean to tell me you don’t?”

  “There’s no such thing as God,” Jarvis replied. “Everybody knows that. It’s illegal to believe in a Supreme Being. You can be thrown into prison for just talking about it.”

  “What?” Blade asked in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”

  Colonel Jarvis grinned. “Looks like you don’t know as much about the Civilized Zone as you thought you did.”

  “How could they make it illegal to believe in our Heavenly Father?” Blade inquired.

  “Easy. They passed a law.”

  “They can’t do that!”

  Jarvis smiled. “Why can’t they? The Government has all the power, and when you have power you can do anything you want. About eighty years ago, I think it was, they passed a law outlawing all religion. They said our scientists had conclusively proven God does not exist. They said the fact that World War III took place shows the universe isn’t dominated by a God of love. How could a God allow so many people to be slaughtered? No. There is no God.”

  “You can’t hold God accountable for the insanity mankind perpetuates,” Blade countered.

  “I had no idea you were such a philosopher.”

  “Everyone in the Family is encouraged to cultivate his or her religious nature,” Blade explained. “We’re free to adopt whatever beliefs we choose.”

  “Does everyone in your Family believe in a Supreme Being?”

  Blade nodded.

  “Amazing!” Jarvis stated.

  Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of Captain Rice at the tent flap. “Colonel!”

  Jarvis twisted in his seat. “What is it? You may enter.”

  Rice walked into the tent and saluted. “Our patrol has just returned.”

  “And?”

  Captain Rice shot a spiteful glance at Blade. “They found the two men sent after Hickok. Dead. They tracked him to the Nomad Camp. The four guards we left there are dead and the vehicle is gone.”

  Colonel Jarvis frowned. “Any sign of the vehicle?”

  “None. We have two jeeps out looking now, but they haven’t radioed in yet.”

  “Good. Keep me posted.” Jarvis dismissed his subordinate with a wave of his left hand. “So,” he said as Rice left the tent, “it appears your Hickok is going to be more of a problem than I thought. Where could he have gone?”

  “Beats me.”

  “We’ll find him,” Jarvis predicted. “Knowing Hickok as I do, I expect he’ll stupidly try to rescue you. When he does, we’ll be ready for him.”

  Blade’s mind was racing. So Hickok had reached the SEAL! Good.

  Jarvis was right; Hickok would try to get them out. The gunman might be grossly outnumbered, but he had an edge. The Army was unaware of the SEAL’s armament.

 
; “Something on your mind?” Jarvis queried, noting Blade’s reflective expression.

  “I was thinking about your jeeps,” Blade lied. “I didn’t know you had any here.”

  “Three of them,” Jarvis said. “We keep them on constant patrol.”

  “Something else,” Blade mentioned, “I’ve been meaning to ask about.

  We took a radio from your men in Thief River Falls. We’ve tried to monitor your broadcasts with it, but we haven’t had much luck. Why is that?”

  Colonel Jarvis laughed. “We alter the frequency used on a daily basis according to a secret schedule, and we rotate the times of our regular broadcasts. Even if you went down the entire dial, the odds of stumbling across us at the right time and frequency are slim.”

  “We know,” Blade agreed.

  “We’re not as dumb as you might think,” Jarvis boasted with a smile.

  “I’ll never underestimate you again,” Blade vowed, thinking of the massacre.

  Jarvis gazed over his right shoulder at the night sky visible through the tent flap. “It’s getting late and I have work to do.” He faced the Warrior.

  “I’ve enjoyed our little talk immensely. It isn’t often I get to associate with an equal. Say! I just remembered something I wanted to show you.” Jarvis rose and walked to the tent opening and spoke to one of the two guards positioned outside.

  Blade searched for a potential weapon. A lantern hung on the tent’s center post, and there was a sleeping bag rolled up in one corner. In another corner was a rumpled green blanket. Blade debated using his steak knife, but rejected the idea.

  “Wait until you see these,” Jarvis said, still standing near the tent flap, waiting for one of the guards to return. “I couldn’t believe it when we found them. I should be able to get a good price for them.”

  There was the pounding of running feet and Jarvis reached thru the opening.

  Blade, his line of sight blocked by the officer’s body, put his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands.

  “Look at these!” Jarvis said elated, turning. “Aren’t they gems?”

  Blade straightened, startled.

  Colonel Jarvis was holding an auto-loading rifle in his right hand, a Commando Arms Carbine with a ninety-shot magazine. In his left hand dangled two shoulder holsters containing Vega 45 automatics. “Ever seen anything like them?” Jarvis asked.