Cincinnati Run Read online

  “I’m getting tired of listening to your bragging,” Geronimo mentioned.

  “You won’t need to listen to me much longer,” General Stoljarov said.

  “We’ve arrived.”

  The elevator slowed to a stop and the door widened, revealing a huge chamber containing sophisticated electronic equipment; consoles, monitors, banks, and sundry cabinets crammed the room. A dozen or more technicians, all wearing red smocks, were seated at various chairs.

  Sitting at a large control console five yards from the elevator was a short, skinny man with a bald head and wire-rimmed glasses. He turned as the elevator arrived and nodded at the Butcher.

  “General Stoljarov. Are you aware the security alarm has been activated?”

  “Yes, Comrade Grineva. I was the one who activated it,” the general said, advancing to the console.

  The guards nudged Geronimo with their AK-47’s, prodding him forward.

  “I took the liberty of shutting off the speakers in the Control Room. We could not concentrate with so much noise.”

  “How is the work proceeding?” General Stoljarov asked.

  “We are making headway. I expect to be ready for the land-target test within twenty-four hours,” Grineva replied, and squinted at the Warrior.

  “Who is this?”

  “His name is Geronimo.”

  “Why have you brought him here?”

  “I’ll explain in a moment,” Stoljarov said, and moved to a telephone on the left side of the console. He scooped up the receiver and pressed the number nine. “Colonel Zaitsev, this is General Stoljarov. Yes, I know. I did.

  Two of my men are guarding the north exit, and the south exit should have been locked after the day shift departed. There is an intruder in the Needle, the Warrior known as Blade. What? You have? And all the floors are being swept? Excellent. I’m in the Control Room. Notify me the moment you have him in custody.” He hung up and glanced at his prisoner, smiling. “Our security people plan to set a trap for Blade on the tenth floor.”

  “Are you sure it’s not the other way around?” Geronimo quipped.

  Stoljarov straightened and looked at Grineva. “Is the Booth available?”

  Leonid Grineva did a double take. “The Booth? Yes, but why would…”

  he began, and stared at Geronimo. “No!”

  “Yes,” General Stoljarov said.

  “But the Booth is meant to be used for research,” Grineva protested.

  “It’s where I work on my theories and try to solve problems.”

  “I am in charge of this facility, am I not?” Stoljarov queried.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I can utilize the Booth as I see fit,” the Butcher declared, and snapped his fingers at the guards.

  “To the right,” one of the soldiers directed Geronimo.

  “This is most improper,” Grineva commented.

  Geronimo walked to the right, past a wide cabinet, and spotted a door in the far corner of the room. A barrel poked him in the small of the back, and he strolled nonchalantly to the door, determined to deprive the Butcher of the satisfaction of seeing him betray any fear.

  General Stoljarov stepped past the Warrior, opened the door, and switched on an overhead light. Within the room was a metal table five feet in length. On the opposite end of the table rested a strange rectangular device hooked to a six-foot-high bank of apparatuses displaying a score of dials, knobs, and switches. The top and sides of the rectangular device were gray, and the right side sported four dials and a switch. Aligned toward the end of the table nearest the door was the front of the device, a black panel with a circular hole in the center.

  “This model is one of Grineva’s early experimental versions,” General Stoljarov disclosed, moving to the rectangular device and patting its top.

  “To him it’s a tool to be used to further his knowledge. To me it’s a toy to be used for my pleasure.” He reached under the table and produced a ten-inch length of steel plate. “Take this,” he ordered the taller of the two guards.

  The soldier obeyed promptly.

  “Hold the plate at the end of the table,” Stoljarov instructed. “Make certain the plate is in line with the hole.”

  Geronimo and the second trooper stepped to the left as the tall soldier came around the table and held the steel plate away from his body, his fingers at the very edge.

  “This is not a very powerful model,” Stoljarov said. “But it will suffice.

  Now watch. I’ve seen Grineva do this many times, and he even gave me a lesson once.” He flicked the switch and rotated the uppermost dial, and the rectangular device began to hum loudly. A pinpoint of light became visible in the hole in the black panel.

  The tall soldier gazed anxiously at the laser, apparently nervous about the fate of his fingers.

  “Here goes,” Stoljarov declared, and turned the second dial.

  A pencil-thin beam of red light shot from the hole and struck the steel plate in the middle. The tall soldier flinched but kept the plate steady.

  Wisps of smoke spiraled upward and a crackling and sizzling arose.

  Sparks flew. An acrid scent filled the room.

  General Stoljarov unexpectedly turned the laser off. “That’s enough of a demonstration.”

  The tall soldier breathed an audible sigh of relief and lowered the plate to the table.

  “Comrade Grineva made a major breakthrough in the generation of the beam,” the general said. “We can widen the laser light to encompass the target, whether the target is the size of a 747 or a car. We can’t enlarge it enough to incinerate the Home with one blast, but ten or twelve computer-directed blasts should do the trick.”

  “You bastard,” Geronimo stated.

  With a wicked sneer, the Butcher motioned at the two troopers.

  “Restrain his arms.”

  The tall soldier covered Geronimo while the second trooper leaned his AK-47 against the wall and gripped the Warrior’s wrists.

  “Both of you,” General Stoljarov directed. “Hold him securely.”

  “Close your eyes,” the tall soldier ordered Geronimo.

  The Warrior complied, and the next moment each arm was seized by one of the Russians.

  “Open them.”

  Geronimo did, to see the tall soldier’s AK-47 propped against the right side of the table and to find the tall soldier clutching his right arm and the second man his left.

  “Position him at the end of the table,” General Stoljarov commanded.

  The guards roughly hauled him into place.

  “And now the fun can begin,” stated the Butcher. “I want his face in line with the hole.”

  Geronimo knew what was coming next. He struggled, striving to break free, but the soldiers forced him to bend over, applying excruciating pressure to his arms. He looked up and stared directly into the hole in the laser.

  The Butcher leaned forward, his hands on the table. “And now you will tell me everything I want to know, or little by little, bit by bit, I will burn the flesh from your head.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Blade never hesitated, never broke stride. He was on the six-man squad in three bounds, ramming the stock of the AK-47 into the mouth of the first soldier and dropping the next with a fierce swipe to the side of the man’s head. Whipping to the right, he smashed his right elbow against the nose of a third adversary, then planted his left combat boot in the groin of the fourth. Only then did he employ the AK-47, firing two shots, one apiece into each remaining Russian’s forehead. He scanned the writhing, groaning figures on the floor and took off.

  Where could Geronimo be?

  In 20 feet he came to a door with two words stenciled in black letters on the panel. The top word was STAIRWELL, and the one underneath was in another language with strange lettering, undoubtedly Russian. He tested the knob, elated to discover the door was unlocked, and left the corridor. As the door closed he heard a commotion to his rear; General Stoljarov’s men must have found t
he six-man squad.

  Move! his mind shrieked.

  Blade took the stairs three at a stride. He reached a landing and continued higher, deliberating his next move. Being separated from Hickok and Geronimo compounded his problem. It wasn’t enough that he had the superweapon and the Hurricane to worry about. Now he had to find his friends. This mission, like most of those in the past, had evolved into a fiasco. No matter how hard he tried, how much he planned, something always went wrong. Always.

  Murphy strikes again.

  He came to another landing and went higher, wanting to put as much distance as possible between Stoljarov’s men and himself. He expected an alarm to sound at any moment, and once it did everyone in Lenin’s Needle would be on the alert. With his ill-fitting uniform, he would undoubtedly stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. How many people, he wondered, occupied the building after the day shift went home? A skeleton crew?

  A third landing appeared, and still he climbed.

  What was his first priority? Locating his fellow Warriors was important, but putting the silver spire out of commission was imperative.

  There must be a control room, and logic dictated it would be on an upper floor. Wrecking the control room, then, should be his primary goal.

  Hickok and Geronimo would have to wait.

  Blade was almost to the next landing when klaxons went off, reverberating in the stairwell, creating a raucous clamor. He went to the door and peeked out.

  A pair of troopers were walking down a wide corridor, their backs to the stairwell. They halted at a closed door 40 feet away, and one of them cautiously thrust the door inward. Their AK-47’s in their hands, they darted from view.

  Blade was out of the stairwell in a flash, running to a door on the left and boldly entering the room beyond to find four rows of long metal tables covered with beakers, flasks, and Bunsen burners. A chemical laboratory?

  What use would the Soviets have for a chemical lab? He peered into the hall.

  A trooper came into view at the far end, carrying objects and strolling in the direction of the chemical lab.

  Blade’s gray eyes narrowed. There was something familiar about the items the man transported, and it took several seconds for the shape of two articles in the soldier’s right hand to register: the Bowies! And there was the Commando, slung over the Russian’s left shoulder. Geronimo’s SAR dangled from the trooper’s right shoulder, and in his right hand he bore the Arminius and the tomahawk.

  What was the soldier doing with them?

  Resolving to reclaim his weapons at any cost. Blade watched the trooper enter a room 60 feet distant. He was tempted to make a dash to the room, but the thought of the pair of Russians in the other chamber deterred him. He would need to get past them without being detected.

  The solitary trooper reappeared and strolled away, exiting through a door on the right-hand side.

  One problem disposed of.

  Blade patiently bided his time, wishing the klaxons would cease caterwauling. A minute later the duo materialized. They closed the door behind them and walked farther away, to the adjacent room, involved in a conversation Blade couldn’t hear because of the din.

  The klaxons.

  If he couldn’t hear the troopers, they wouldn’t be able to hear him.

  Blade stared at their backs, took a breath, and charged, his long legs flying, covering six feet at a spring, his finger on the AK-47 trigger just in case they turned.

  Neither so much as suspected his presence. With a final leap Blade was behind them, clubbing one with the stock, the second with the barrel.

  Both stumbled and fell to their knees, and he struck each man again, knocking them senseless. A glance in both directions insured there were no witnesses. Blade slung the AK-47 over his left arm, then crouched and draped an unconscious Russian over each broad shoulder. His massive leg muscles quivered as he rose and hurried toward the room where the weapons had been stashed.

  If soldiers emerged from any of the rooms now, he’d be at their mercy.

  Blade reached the door and attempted to turn the knob, frowning when he discovered it was locked. He stepped back, clasped the Russians firmly, and delivered a kick with his right boot, his steely sinews snapping the lock, splitting the jamb, and causing the door to fly inward. He entered, groped for a light switch, and flicked on the light, then lowered the soldiers to the floor. As he shut the door he surveyed the chamber, noting a row of metal lockers lined against the rear wall, a rack of AK-47’s on the left wall and, of all things, a blackboard on the right.

  What was the reason for the blackboard?

  In the center of the room stood two tables piled with weapons and gear, and there, on the top of the nearest heap, were the Bowies in their sheaths.

  Blade let the AK-47 fall and crossed to the table. A garment in another pile caught his attention, and he suddenly realized all of their clothing, evidently taken from the jeep, lay in a jumbled bundle.

  He looked down at himself, at the ludicrous uniform, and, in a fit of annoyance, took hold of the front of his shirt, his brawny hands bunching the fabric, and yanked his arms outward, popping every button. Working swiftly, he removed the Soviet uniform and donned his green fatigue pants, the leather vest, and his Bowies. Why bother wearing the Russian uniform anymore? he reasoned. Every soldier at the L.R.F. must be aware that the Warriors were on the premises, so the uniform had lost its value as a disguise. Besides, he was tired of feeling cramped and uncomfortable.

  If he had to take on the Russian Army, then he would confront them in his own clothes. He patted his pants pockets, verifying the spare ammo was still there.

  Almost ready.

  Blade slung Geronimo’s SAR over his left shoulder, and tucked the tomahawk under his belt next to his left Bowie. He placed the Arminius in the small of his back, then paused.

  What should he do about Hickok’s buckskins and gunbelt, Geronimo’s shoulder holster and clothes, and their moccasins?

  He walked to the row of dull green metal lockers and opened one in the center.

  Bingo.

  The locker contained a brown backpack, a web belt with a survival knife attached, a Russian helmet, and a uniform shirt. He went from locker to locker, finding identical gear in every one. Were these storage lockers for some of the troops? He took a backpack from the last locker and returned to the table, taking but a few seconds to cram everything inside, then donned the pack. Satisfied, he stepped to the door, threw it wide, and stalked into the corridor.

  And walked right into trouble.

  A trio of soldiers stood 20 feet to the right, their AK-47’s at their sides, in the act of advancing down the hall, their expressions reflecting their bewilderment at his abrupt appearance.

  Blade shot them. He whipped the Commando from right to left, the heavy slugs tearing into the troopers and slamming them to the floor with their chests perforated, their bodies racked by spasms. Since he knew additional Russians would be coming up the stairwell after him, he opted to wheel to the left and head for the end of the corridor. Only then did he realize the klaxons had stopped wailing.

  Someone must have heard the Commando.

  So what?

  He hadn’t gone ten yards when he saw the elevator and halted in front of the door. The numbers overhead indicated the car was on its way down.

  Good. He pushed the button and surveyed the corridor.

  No reinforcements yet.

  In 15 seconds the elevator arrived, the door sliding open to reveal two officers, each of whom wore a pistol in a belt holster.

  “What the hell!” the older of the pair blurted.

  Blade sent several rounds into the older officer’s face, the impact hurling the Russian against the rear of the car. He collapsed at the feet of the younger officer, who seemed to be in a state of shock.

  “Do you know who I am?” Blade asked harshly, moving into the elevator and touching the tip of the Commando barrel to the officer’s forehead.

  “Yes,�
� the man exclaimed, gulping.

  “And you must know about the Hurricane out front.”

  “Yes,” the officer said.

  “And here’s the question that determines whether you live or die,” Blade informed him. “I know the pilot survived, and I suspect he’s being forced to teach your pilots about our VTOL. Where is he?”

  The officer licked his lips. “The seventh floor,” he divulged quickly.

  “He’s being held on the seventh floor.”

  “Congratulations. You get to live.”

  “Thanks,” the officer responded weakly.

  Blade hit the button for the seventh floor, and then hit the young officer squarely on the jaw with his left fist, his shoulder and arm muscles rippling, crumpling the hapless Russian. “But I never said I’d leave you in one piece,” he commented, and unslung the SAR.

  The elevator reached the seventh floor an instant later.

  With the Commando in his right hand and the SAR in his left. Blade emerged into a hornet’s nest of Russian soldiers. He cut loose ambidextrously, firing in both directions, taking the Soviets completely unawares, the stocks of both weapons clamped under his armpits to absorb the recoil. There were too many troopers to bother counting them; he simply mowed them down in droves, their death wails and screams commingling in an eerie chorus. His withering hail of lead caught those foolish enough to rush from various rooms upon hearing the thundering of his weapons. Only when the SAR went empty did he cease firing.

  Crimson-splattered figures littered the corridor, many moaning and contorting in anguish.

  Blade tilted his head and shouted at the top of his lungs.

  “Captain Stuart! Captain Lyle Stuart! Can you hear me? This is Blade!”

  A muffled cry came from a door 20 feet to the right.

  Alert for the merest hint of hostility, Blade threaded a path over and between the corpses and the wounded and halted next to the door.