Seattle Run Read online

  “Will do,” Laslo said.

  The Hurricane roared over the Home at 647 miles an hour, then banked to the east, its engines thundering.

  Craning his neck, Blade caught a glimpse of the survivalist compound in which he had been raised. The Home. The brainchild of a man named Kurt Carpenter, the 30-acre compound had been constructed prior to World War Three. Situated in extreme northwest Minnesota, surrounded by brick walls 20 feet high capped with barbed wire, and containing six massive concrete structures designed to withstand nuclear and chemical warfare toxins, the Home, as Carpenter had dubbed the site, had survived the insanity of the “final” holocaust. For a century after the war the descendants of Carpenter’s followers, those whom he had affectionately christened as his Family, had kept to themselves, seldom venturing far afield, isolated from the rest of the world. Only within the last five years, Blade reflected, had the Family undertaken to explore a world environmentally, culturally, and biologically deranged by humankind’s ultimate folly.

  With astonishing results.

  Blade’s mind reviewed the highlights as the Hurricane arched toward the Home. There had been enemies galore: the Trolls, the Watchers, the Brutes, the Wacks, the Doktor and his personal army of genetically engineered mutations, the Reds, the Zombies, and more. And the Family had made friends too, had found allies in the struggle to restore some semblance of civilization to the ravaged planet. Those allies included the Flathead Indians in Montana, the superb horsemen known as the Cavalry in the Dakota Territory, the Clan and the Moles —both based in Minnesota, the Civilized Zone in the Midwest, and finally the most recent addition, the Free State of California. Including the Family, all seven factions had banded together to form the Freedom Federation, a mutual alliance of self-preservation. And as the head of the Federation’s newly appointed tactical strike squad, the Freedom Force—or the Force as it was simply called—here he was returning to the Home from Los Angeles after finalizing the details for the Force’s formation. He planned to escort his wife and young son to California.

  The Hurricane slowed dramatically as Captain Laslo angled the aircraft toward the large field bordering the Home to the west. As a security precaution, the Family regularly cleared the land for 150 yards on all four sides of the square compound. By doing so, they insured potential enemies could not launch an assault undetected by the Warriors manning the ramparts on the brick walls.

  “You know,” Blade commented, observing a bustle of activity in the Home as the aircraft approached, “it never ceases to amaze me.”

  “What does?” Laslo asked.

  “That with all their technological wizardry, the leaders of the prewar society stupidly managed to destroy their way of life,” Blade said. “They could build wonders like this Hurricane, they dominated the globe scientifically, yet they were unable to dominate their baser emotions and wound up turning their technology against themselves.” He sighed.

  “Pitiful. They could have transformed the world into a Utopia. Instead, they came damn close to obliterating the human race. Instead, they unwittingly unleashed horrors beyond their wildest imaginings. They could have created a Utopia, but they created a hell.”

  The Hurricane coasted to a stop approximately 100 yards above the field located to the west of the Home, and poised in the Hover Mode, suspended in the air like a gargantuan dragonfly.

  Blade could see dozens of figures lining the top of the west wall, and the huge drawbridge situated in the center of the wall was lowering outward.

  He felt eager to be on the ground again, to be with his loved ones and friends.

  Captain Laslo was busy flicking several switches in the cockpit. The Hurricane’s engines decreased in volume from a raucous crescendo to a muted whine, and the aircraft slowly descended toward the middle of the field.

  Blade could see a small cloud of dust swirling below the Hurricane as they dropped down. “How small a landing space do you need?” he inquired.

  Captain Laslo was occupied with his landing procedure, watching the ground below. “What?”

  “How small an area can the Hurricane land in?” Blade asked, rephrasing his query.

  “The Hurricane requires about eighty square feet of landing space,” Laslo disclosed. “And the same amount to take off.”

  “That’s all?” Blade asked.

  “Some of the earlier versions required even less,” Laslo mentioned.

  “One of the popular models in use before World War Three was called the Harrier. That beauty only needed seventy-two square feet of landing or takeoff space. Of course, the Harrier was smaller than the Hurricane. The Harrier normally carried just the pilot, but this Hurricane, as you know, can transport up to five passengers in addition to the pilot. The Hurricane is larger than the Harrier was, primarily because the Hurricane was designed to carry a strike team or squad into combat, instead of just serving as a fancy fighter with unique capabilities.”

  Blade had detected a note of pride in Laslo’s voice whenever the pilot talked about his craft. “The Hurricanes were built right before the war, weren’t they?”

  “Yep. Not many came off the assembly line before the radioactive shit hit the fan. This baby was one of the last ones built. California had four of them at one time, but only two are still flyable. The other two were salvaged for spare parts.” He paused. “What a waste!”

  “You like to fly, don’t you?” Blade inquired. He noted the Hurricane was about forty yards above the ground.

  “I love to fly,” Laslo replied. “And I love the Hurricane. She’s a distinct improvement over the earlier V/STOLs.”

  “The what?”

  “Oh. Sorry. The Harriers I told you about were called V/STOLs. It’s an abbreviation for vertical-short takeoff and landing ability. But they dropped the S for the Hurricanes and called them VTOLs, like the pre-Harrier models. Bureaucratic mumbo jumbo, I guess. Understand?”

  “I think I follow you,” Blade said.

  “This beauty carries up to ten thousand pounds of firepower. Rockets, bombs, Sidewinder missiles, you name it, the Hurricane packs it. I could level a city if I had a nuclear warhead,” Laslo declared, sounding excited at the prospect.

  The Hurricane settled onto the earth with a gentleness belying its size and weight. Dust enveloped the cockpit.

  “Well, you’re home,” Laslo commented. “How long will we be here?”

  Blade unfastened the strap of his helmet. “Not more than two or three days, I should think. I have to break the news to my wife, then pack, then—”

  “Your wife doesn’t know you’re going to live in Los Angeles?” Laslo asked, interrupting.

  “Nope,” Blade responded. “I told Plato and Hickok not to mention a word. I want Jenny to hear the news from me.”

  Captain Laslo laughed. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

  Blade removed his helmet. A comma of dark hair fell above his eyes.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m married, too,” Laslo divulged, opening the cockpit.

  Blade breathed in the air, ignoring the lingering dust particles. He unfastened the belt restraints, then dropped his helmet onto the seat behind him.

  Scores of Family members were converging on the Hurricane, crossing the drawbridge and hurrying up to the aircraft, their expressions conveying an attitude of restrained awe.

  Blade spotted his beloved wife in the crowd, her long blond hair flowing over her shoulders, her shapely figure amply filling a pair of blue pants and a yellow blouse, her lively green eyes on him. He didn’t bother to wait for the ladder; he simply vaulted over the side of the cockpit, slid down the forward fuselage, and dropped lightly to the ground in a crouch. His hands automatically clasped the hilts of the twin Bowie knives strapped around his waist, one in a sheath on each hip, insuring they were still in place. He straightened and moved to greet Jenny.

  She eagerly pressed her way through the assembled Family members and leaped into his outstretched arms, giving him a hug and plan
ting her lips on his.

  Blade felt her sweet tongue part his lips. He held her close, her feet a foot above the soil, savoring the kiss. His absence had intensified his passion, and he wished they could be alone. An hour with Jenny invariably sufficed to remove all the residual tension from a harrowing mission.

  Jenny reluctantly drew back, grinning. “Ummmmm. That was nice, handsome. I can see all our practice hasn’t been wasted.” She chuckled and pecked him on the tip of the nose.

  Blade eased her to the turf, his hands on her shoulder blades. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “And I’ve missed you,” Jenny stated. “Why didn’t you come back with Plato and Hickok?”

  “I had business to attend to,” Blade told her.

  “What kind of business?” Jenny probed. “Plato and Hickok wouldn’t tell me. All I know is that the three of you flew out to California for a summit meeting, and you ran into trouble from a group of professional assassins who didn’t want California to join the Freedom Federation. After the summit, Plato and Hickok returned. Why didn’t you?” she queried with a hint of reproach in her tone.

  “I’ll explain in a bit,” Blade promised. He scanned the crowd, seeking his son. “Where’s Gabe?”

  “Sherry is watching him,” Jenny replied, referring to Hickok’s wife.

  “She was at our cabin when the jet flew over. I asked her to watch him so I could get here as quickly as possible.”

  Blade kissed her on the forehead. “I can’t wait to see him,” he mentioned.

  “I reckon you might have to,” interjected a newcomer in a decided drawl.

  Blade looked to his left, knowing who he would find, smiling at the sight of one of his best friends and a fellow Warrior. “Hickok!”

  The Family’s preeminent gunfighter was standing five feet away, his lean six-foot frame clothed in buckskins and moccasins, a matched pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers suspended from his slim waist, his thumbs casually hooked in his gun belt. He sported a blond mustache to complement his blond hair. “Howdy, pard,” he said to Blade, his blue eyes uncharacteristically somber.

  “What’s up?” Blade inquired, his brow creasing in concern.

  Before the gunman could respond, Jenny held up her right hand. “Hold it! Can’t this wait, Nathan?”

  Nathan was the name bestowed on the gunfighter by his parents at birth. But like the majority of Family members, and according to a formal ceremony initially instituted by Kurt Carpenter, Nathan had selected a new name on his sixteenth birthday, the name of an ancient legendary shootist. This Naming ceremony, as the Family called it, was designed to encourage familiarity with the Family’s historical antecedents by having each 16-year-old select a new name as his or her very own from the history books in the library, or from any other book available. For some reason, many Family members still referred to the gunman by his given name. All this passed quickly through Hickok’s mind as he shook his head. “Nope. This can’t wait, Jenny. I need to talk to Blade now.”

  Jenny frowned. “But he just got home!”

  “I know,” Hickok said, shrugging. “But this can’t be helped. It’s very important.” He glanced up into the gray eyes of the seven-foot giant. “I’m sorry about this pard. I really am.”

  Jenny gazed at her husband. “Blade! Not now!”

  “It’s really important, pard,” Hickok stressed.

  Blade draped his right arm about Jenny’s shoulders. “Walk with us to our cabin,” he instructed the gunfighter. “Fill me in on the way. I want to see Gabe.” He led Jenny toward the drawbridge, nodding and smiling as many of the Family members welcomed him back.

  Hickok fell in alongside Blade and Jenny.

  Jenny cast a spiteful glance at the gunman.

  Grinning sheepishly, Hickok decided to try the oblique approach. “Yes, sir,” he commented, “that Gabe of yours sure is a chip off the old block.”

  Blade gazed at his friend. “I just wish I got to see him more often.”

  “Maybe you will in—” Hickok began, then caught himself.

  Jenny noticed. “What was that?” she inquired.

  Blade hastily came to the gunfighter’s rescue. “So how is your son Ringo doing?”

  Hickok beamed. “The little buckaroo is growin’ like a sprout,” he stated proudly. “My missus claims Ringo will grow up to be just like his pa.”

  “Poor Ringo,” Jenny muttered.

  “Be nice,” Blade said, then stared at the gunman. “So what’s so damn important that you had to interrupt my homecoming?”

  “I’m sorry,” Hickok apologized again, looking at Jenny. “I truly am. I know how much you were lookin’ forward to Blade comin’ back. But I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

  Jenny stared into the distance, her annoyance at Hickok’s intrusion temporarily overriding her affection for the flamboyant Warrior.

  “So what is it, already?” Blade demanded impatiently.

  Hickok frowned. “Well, it’s like this. Last night I was in A Block gettin’ some ammo for my Pythons—”

  Blade glanced at the drawbridge, thinking of the layout of the compound. The eastern half of the Home was preserved in a natural state and used primarily for agricultural purposes. In the center of the compound, arranged in a row from north to south, were the cabins for the married Family members. And in the western section were the six huge concrete blocks constructed under Kurt Carpenter’s careful supervision over a century ago. Each block was designated by a letter, and each one was devoted to a specific function. A Block was the armory, where the Family stored their enormous supply of weapons. B Block was the sleeping quarters for single Family members. C Block was the infirmary; D Block the carpentry, blacksmithing, and general construction shop; E Block was the invaluable library; and F Block was devoted to the work of the Tillers, to preserving food and storing farming supplies. The six blocks were aligned in a triangular formation.

  “—and I was on my way out the door,” Hickok was saying, “when I saw those radios we confiscated a while back. Remember them?”

  Blade did indeed. The Warriors had taken the radios from vanquished enemies. One of the sets had been appropriated from the Watchers in Thief River Falls, and the second from the Russians. The radios were kept on a bench at the rear of the armory. “I remember them,” he said.

  “I got this urge to tinker with ’em,” Hickok disclosed. “I’ve seen Plato use them. He likes to spend hours listening, hoping he’ll pick up something. So I figured, why not?”

  “You picked up something?” Blade deduced.

  “More than I bargained for,” Hickok admitted.

  “Like what?” Blade queried.

  “Let me put it this way,” Hickok said, grinning. “Have you ever wanted to visit Seattle?”

  Chapter Two

  He was hurrying from his cabin when he saw her storming toward him.

  Plato paused, his kindly blue eyes narrowing, absently reaching up to stroke his long gray beard. His slim frame was clad in patched and faded jeans and a brown shirt well past its prime, both stitched together by his doting wife, Nadine. As Family Leader, he was sensitive to fluctuations in the normal Family routine. And the sight of Blade’s wife in a funk was definitely out of the ordinary.

  Jenny’s fists were clenched, her jaw set tight, as she tramped in the direction of the row of cabins.

  “Hello, Jenny,” Plato greeted her when she was several yards off.

  Jenny simply nodded.

  “Is anything amiss?” Plato inquired as she came abreast of him.

  Jenny broke her stride, halting and glancing at the Family’s wise, elderly chief. “Why do we do it?” she snapped.

  “Do what?” Plato responded, perplexed.

  “Get married?” Jenny stated. “Why do women willingly tie themselves to a man for better or worse?”

  Plato opened his mouth to speak.

  “I’ll tell you why!” Jenny said, cutting him off. “Because we’re gluttons for punish
ment! That’s why women marry men!”

  “Love is also a prime factor,” Plato observed.

  “Love!” Jenny practically exploded. “What kind of love is it when the husband is hardly ever home? What kind of love is it when the man you love has to leave all the time to go off slaying dragons?”

  Plato glanced at the west wall. “I don’t understand. Didn’t a jet arrive a short while ago with Blade?”

  “It did!” Jenny said bitterly. “But I won’t get to see much of him! He’s planning to leave tomorrow morning!”

  “Leave! Why must he leave?” Plato questioned.

  “Ask him!” Jenny replied, starting to walk off.

  “What is his destination?” Plato asked.

  “Seattle!” Jenny declared over her right shoulder.

  Plato scratched the gray hair rimming his wrinkled forehead, confused.

  Jenny abruptly stopped and turned. “Oh! If you should see Hickok, would you do me a favor?”

  “Anything,” Plato promised.

  “Punch him in the mouth!” Jenny spat, her eyes watering. She spun and ran toward her cabin.

  Plato hastened to the west, scanning the compound for the man he loved as the son he’d never had. Spotting Blade wasn’t difficult; the giant Warrior towered head and shoulders over the majority of Family members. He saw Blade and Hickok in the open area between the concrete blocks, moving his way. Plato smiled and waved.

  Blade returned the wave, increasing his stride, reaching his mentor within seconds. “Plato! It’s good to see you.” He placed his brawny hands on Plato’s narrow shoulders. “How is Nadine?”

  “She is fine,” Plato replied. “I wish I could say the same for Jenny.”

  Blade gazed at the cabins. “You saw her, huh?”

  “She is extremely upset,” Plato remarked.

  “She’ll get over it,” Hickok interjected. “Women are contrary critters. They’re so blamed moody. They’re just not happy if they don’t have an excuse to get all bent out of shape now and then.”

  Blade glanced at the gunman. “Do you ever tell your wife she’s a ‘critter’?”