Anaheim Run Page 3

  General Owens made a snorting sound. “I wish! Enough radiation polluted the environment to drastically affect genetic transmission, although the damn mutants didn’t appear in any numbers until about a decade after the war. They reproduced at a fantastic rate, and the rural areas of California were practically overrun before the Army brought the mutants under control.”

  “You’ve eradicated the mutants?” Plato asked skeptically.

  General Owens shook his head. “No, damn it! We’ve tried, but it’s impossible. We have managed to clear them away from the urban centers and the smaller towns and communities. But it’s not safe to travel in some parts of the state, particularly the mountains, unless you’re well armed and with others.”

  “The mutants are everywhere,” Plato noted. “I’m of the opinion we will never rid ourselves of the genetic deviates. The mutant population will serve as an ever-present reminder of humankind’s ultimate folly.”

  “Or putting it in basic English,” Hickok quipped, “once a bunch of dummies, always a bunch of dummies.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Blade said to the gunman.

  “I knew it was too good to be true,” Hickok cracked.

  “What?” Plato inquired.

  “Since we left Geronimo at the Home,” Hickok said, “I figured nobody would be gettin’ on my case this trip.”

  Plato looked at Blade and winked, then glanced at the gunman.

  “Unfortunately, Nathan, you invite ridicule by your outlandish behavior.”

  “What outlandish behavior, old-timer?” Hickok countered.

  “Do you really want me to enumerate your bizarre traits?” Plato asked in feigned surprise.

  “Name one,” Hickok said.

  Plato extended his right forefinger. “For starters, there’s your peculiar propensity for conversing in that strange Wild West idiom.”

  “So I’m a mite creative with my palaver,” Hickok commented. “What’s wrong with being creative?”

  “Is that what you call it? Being creative?” Blade interjected.

  “What would you call it?” Hickok demanded.

  “Being a ding-a-ling,” Blade said, straight-faced.

  Hickok stared at General Owens. “I can’t get no respect, I tell you. This is the way they treat me all the time. Except for my pardner Geronimo, and he treats me worse.”

  “We have company,” Blade announced.

  A hefty man in a brown suit, his congenial features uplifted in a broad smile, and a petite blonde in a green dress reached the stairs.

  “I’m Governor Melnick,” the man in the brown suit said, greeting them.

  He offered his right hand to Plato. “And you’re Plato, the leader of the Family, correct?”

  “I am,” Plato confirmed, shaking Melnick’s hand.

  “I am honored to meet you, sir,” Governor Melnick said sincerely, his brown eyes conveying his pleasure. “Your legend precedes you.”

  “My legend?” Plato asked.

  “The Family’s Legend. The envoys President Toland sent to propose this summit meeting told us all about your Family,” Governor Melnick revealed. “You are very highly regarded by the other members of the Freedom Federation, and I look forward to having you as a staunch ally.”

  “You’ve decided to join the Federation then?” Plato asked hopefully.

  Governor Melnick nodded. “I won’t be making the formal announcement until tomorrow at the summit meeting, but yes, we have decided to become a member of the Freedom Federation.”

  Plato smiled, genuinely delighted at the news. “President Toland and the other leaders will be pleased to learn of your decision.” He paused.

  “Has President Toland arrived yet?”

  “Not yet,” Governor Melnick said. “He’s due to arrive in about three hours. The other leaders are all here. They’ve been transported to the summit site in Anaheim.”

  Plato glanced at the VTOL. “I want to thank you for agreeing to fly all the Federation leaders to the summit. As you are aware, traveling overland is a hazardous venture.”

  “I know,” General Melnick agreed. “But flying all of you to California was the least I could do after President Toland accepted my offer to hold the summit here. Once the treaty is signed, I intend to propose using our two VTOL’s on a regular basis to shuttle passengers, convey communiques, and generally serve as a courier service for the Freedom Federation. What do you think of the idea?”

  “It’s highly commendable and quite generous of you,” Plato replied.

  “Currently, our messages can take weeks to reach other Federation members because of the distances involved. The last of the Civilized Zone’s jets was destroyed five years ago, and none of the other Federation members possess aircraft.” He gazed around the airport. “How have you managed to keep so many of your craft airworthy?”

  “By assigning them our highest priority,” Governor Melnick divulged.

  “California has abundant natural resources, but our supply isn’t unlimited. The Free State government rationed fuel during the war, and the rationing wasn’t lifted until about two decades later. We produce sufficient fuel to meet our needs, but every gallon is strictly accounted for.

  Utilizing aircraft is the only sensible means of conducting government, military, and commercial business. You have to remember California is eight hundred miles in length. So we’ve deliberately concentrated on maintaining our aircraft. We still use cars and jeeps and trucks, but not on extended trips unless there’s no other alternative.”

  “Your government made a wise decision,” Plato remarked.

  Hickok abruptly made a show of clearing his throat. “Ain’t you honchos forgettin’ your manners?”

  “How rude of me,” Governor Melnick said, offering his hand. “You must be Hickok.” He looked at the gunman’s Pythons as they shook hands. “I’ve heard about your exploits.”

  Hickok grinned. “I reckon I am a mite famous.”

  “And modest too,” Blade chimed in. He shook hands with the governor.

  “I’m Blade.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Governor Melnick said. “I know about you too. You’re the head of the Warriors, and you’re responsible for safeguarding the Family’s compound.”

  “Among other duties,” Blade stated, thinking of his beloved wife, Jenny, and his young son, Gabriel, both two thousand miles away at the Home, the Family’s survivalist compound located near Lake Bronson State Park in northern Minnesota.

  Governor Melnick nodded toward the VTOL. “I would have liked to meet more of your Family, but the VTOL’s can only carry a maximum of five passengers.”

  “Then why’d you bring just us three?” Hickok asked.

  “Because although we’ve used our VTOL’s to transport five passengers on short hauls, and although we’ve added extra fuel tanks for long-range flights, we’ve never actually flown them beyond California’s borders,” Governor Melnick disclosed. “We’ve simply had nowhere to go. Until we were contacted by your Federation, we assumed, based on past experience, that we’d receive a hostile reception anywhere we landed. In addition, we couldn’t be certain of obtaining fuel if, by some chance, the craft ran low.

  So to play it safe we’ve stayed within our borders. Until now. These flights to pick up the Federation leaders are test runs. Theoretically, one of our VTOL’s could fly five people from your Home to L.A., but I didn’t want to run the risk of endangering your lives if the aircraft became low on fuel.

  With only three passengers, though, I knew our VTOL could easily make the trip. Which is why only three representatives from each Federation member are being flown to the summit meeting.”

  “A prudent judgment,” Plato commented.

  Governor Melnick turned toward the blonde. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Sharon.”

  Sharon Melnick stepped forward, smiling, about to shake Plato’s hand, when her forehead suddenly exploded outward, spraying blood and chunks of ragged flesh and grisly gore in a wide arc. Her
body stiffened and she toppled forward.

  “Sharon!” Governor Melnick cried, catching her in his arms.

  The two Warriors were already in motion. Hickok crouched, his hands twin blurs as the Pythons cleared leather. Blade gripped Plato’s shoulders and pulled the Family Leader to the tarmac.

  General Owens moved to assist Governor Melnick, placing himself between the governor and the terminal as he tried to support Sharon Melnick. The right side of the general’s face erupted in a crimson shower and he fell backwards.

  The crowd near the terminal was shouting and screaming. A dozen men in green uniforms were sprinting toward the VTOL.

  “Get down!” Hickok yelled, springing to the governor’s side and rudely hauling Melnick to the ground. The gunman scanned the crowd and the terminal, seeking the sniper. “Where the blazes is the varmint?”

  Blade, covering Plato with his own body, spotted a solitary figure on the roof of the terminal. “Hickok! The roof!”

  Hickok glanced up and was off like a shot, dodging and weaving to present a difficult target. He could see the sniper was wearing a military uniform and holding a weapon, but he couldn’t distinguish the type of weapon. The thing didn’t look like a gun, but he couldn’t be sure. He was still 30 yards from the terminal when he saw the sniper take aim, and he knew Melnick and Plato were the likely quarry. The gunfighter reacted instinctively, firing on the run, each Python booming, going for the chest because the head was partly obscured.

  Incredibly, the gunman apparently missed a vital organ. The sniper staggered backwards several paces, shaking his head vigorously, and then moved back to the rim of the roof. He hefted his weapon, as if indecisive about making another attempt.

  Hickok poured on the speed.

  The sniper dropped from sight.

  Hickok reached the line of soldiers running toward the VTOL. Three of them had stopped and were staring at the terminal. “Follow me!” the gunman shouted. He heard them pounding after him.

  The sniper had not reappeared.

  Hickok didn’t slacken his pace as he approached the crowd. “Move!” he bellowed, waving the Colts, and the welcoming committee immediately parted, men and women frantically darting to the right and the left. He found a pair of glass doors in his path, and he used the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to snatch at the metal handle on the left-hand door, wrenching the door open and throwing himself to the left and squatting.

  The sniper was on the far side of the sparsely crowded modernistic terminal, standing in front of another set of glass doors, his weapon to his shoulder.

  One of the three soldiers was coming through the entrance.

  Hickok looked to his right, his mouth wide to voice a warning.

  The soldier was struck in the chest, the impact flinging him backwards into the two troopers behind him.

  The sniper spun and raced through the exit on the far side.

  Fuming, Hickok was up and running across the terminal, furious at himself for having missed and blaming his failure for the death of the soldier. As he sped in pursuit of the sniper, he speculated on the type of weapon the assassin was using. He hadn’t seen a flash or heard a shot. The mangy coyote could be employing a rifle fitted with a silencer, but the contours of the weapon did not resemble those of a rifle. So what the blazes was the sniper using?

  Hickok barreled through the glass doors on the opposite side of the terminal, discovering a spacious parking lot filled with various vehicles.

  Unsuspecting pedestrians ambled to and fro, some heading for the terminal or other points, some walking toward their cars. A number of soldiers were threading their way across the parking lot.

  Damn!

  Hickok jogged into the maze of vehicles, surveying the parking lot, realizing the lot was surrounded by a chain-link fence. There was only one exit, a gate on the east side manned by a pair of guards. He made for the gate, studying every vehicle and pedestrian. Quite a few of the people he passed had heard the shots and were gazing at the terminal in transparent perplexity. Several noticed his Pythons and gave him a wide berth.

  A jeep suddenly gunned its engine, coming around a row of vehicles to the left.

  Hickok peered into the jeep, the glare of the sunlight on the windshield momentarily obscuring his vision. The jeep was about 20 yards away and would pass within 15 feet of his position. He took another step, squinting, and there the bastard was, hunched over the jeep’s steering wheel.

  Not this time!

  The sniper must have realized he’d been spotted, because the jeep surged forward, accelerating rapidly.

  Hickok covered the 15 feet to the aisle in a mad rush, halting directly in the path of the oncoming jeep. He saw the sniper glare at him, and the jeep swerved slightly as the driver bore down at 50 miles an hour.

  The sniper’s intent was obvious; he was trying to run over the Warrior.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” a nearby pedestrian shouted.

  Hickok fired from the hip, the Pythons held close to his waist. The Colts boomed and bucked, twice apiece, and the jeep’s windshield shattered and caved in. The gunman had deliberately refrained from planting a slug in the sniper. Hickok had decided he wanted the assassin alive if possible.

  But fate intervened.

  Ducking his head to avert the flying glass, the sniper inadvertently tugged on the steering wheel, sending the jeep hurtling to the left at a row of parked vehicles.

  Hickok, transfixed, watched as the sniper got his due.

  The assassin looked up, perceiving his danger. He yanked on the steering wheel, striving to avoid the parked vehicles, but he was too late.

  The front of the jeep smashed into the rear of a parked troop transport, the fender and the grill buckling. Unable to keep his grip on the steering wheel, the sniper was propelled up and over. He sailed out the gaping windshield, a sharp spike of glass attached to the upper frame tearing his back open in the process. His head slammed into the truck’s tailgate with a sickening crunch, and he collapsed onto the hood of the jeep.

  Hickok could hear the jeep motor sputtering and rumbling as he hurried toward it. He had scant hope of finding the sniper alive.

  The assassin unexpectedly rose to his knees, reeling, a torrent of blood pouring from a hole in his cranium. He was fumbling with his right pants pocket.

  Hickok held his fire, knowing the sniper would be easy to take. He was ten feet from the jeep when the assassin’s hand came into view holding a hand grenade.

  The sniper was on the verge of unconsciousness, but he mustered the strength to pull the pin on the grenade.

  Hickok threw himself backward, twisting in midair, but he was a foot from the asphalt when the grenade went off, the thundering blast sending fragments of metal, glass, and pulpy tissue in every direction. The concussion smacked into the gunman with tremendous force, flipping him, sending him tumbling across the parking lot to collide with a parked car, his body lanced by bone-jarring pain.

  A spiraling column of smoke wafted skyward from the demolished jeep.

  Hickok slowly stood, leaning on the car, staring at the flaming wreckage. The sniper had committed suicide! And only demented fanatics or seasoned professionals snuffed their own lives when a mission had failed. Hickok doubted the assassin had been a fanatic. He straightened, a twinge of discomfort in his lower back, realizing his Pythons were still in his hands. With a practiced flourish, he twirled the revolvers into their holsters. One thing was for certain, he told himself. The summit meeting promised to be more eventful than he’d anticipated.

  Chapter Two

  “I can’t believe I missed,” Hickok said gloomily, absently starring out the limousine window.

  “No one hits the bull’s-eye every time,” Blade commented by way of consolation.

  “I do,” Hickok stated morosely.

  The two Warriors and Plato were in a black limousine, speeding to the southeast on the Santa Ana Freeway. Traffic was light. Plato, seated in the middle of the rear seat, glanced
at the Warriors. Blade was behind the driver, a sergeant; Hickok was on the passenger side.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Nathan,” Plato advised Hickok, using the name bestowed on the gunfighter by his parents. Hickok, like most of the Family members, had chosen to adopt a new name on his sixteenth birthday, and he had selected the name of an ancient gunman he admired.

  The Founder of the Family’s compound, the man responsible for spending millions of dollars to have the retreat constructed prior to World War Three, the man responsible for designating the site as the Home and dubbing his followers the Family, had instituted a special ceremony for all Family members. Upon turning sixteen, they were encouraged to research the vast Family library and pick any historical name they desired as their very own. The Founder had hoped this practice would insure that his descendants never lost sight of their antecedents. Later, the Family Elders had decided that any book, not just historical works, could serve as a source for the Naming ceremony, and Family members were even permitted to choose a name of their own devising. Blade had selected a new name predicated on his affinity for knives, while Nathan had taken the name of his childhood hero, James Butler Hickok. Over the years the gunman had lived up to his name, repeatedly exhibiting an infallible marksmanship. All of these thoughts went through Plato’s mind as he gazed at the sullen gunfighter.

  “I must not be gettin’ enough practice,” Hickok said.

  “You practice more than anyone I know,” Blade remarked, instantly regretting his lack of tact when his friend frowned and sighed.

  “Then I’m gettin’ old,” Hickok declared.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Plato admonished. “You’re only thirty.”

  Hickok studied his hands. “Then I must be losin’ my touch. And if I can’t hit what I aim at, then I ain’t much use as a Warrior.”

  “This isn’t like you,” Blade said. “You’d better snap out of it before we reach Anaheim, because I need you in top form for the summit meeting.”

  “Top form?” Hickok responded, and snorted.

  Plato elected to change the topic. “This limousine is truly luxurious. We’re receiving the red-carpet treatment.”