Spartan Run Page 8

  Loud, shrill noises came from the rear, the squealing of brakes applied roughly, too roughly as the subsequent crash signified.

  Blade concentrated on the jeep dead ahead, slanting the SEAL in directly behind it. He promptly flicked the silver toggle to the machine guns, and the twin big-fifties blasted and bucked, the rounds punching into the jeep’s tail and stitching a pattern of holes all over it.

  Not a heartbeat later the jeep swerved to one side, then the other. The driver appeared to have lost his grip. For a full five seconds the vehicle veered back and forth until finally leaving the road entirely, angling up and over a sidewalk and ramming into a building. The gas tank ruptured, flames shot from under the hood, and a fireball engulfed the jeep and its occupants.

  Blade gazed at the mirror. The dust completely obscured the road so he had no way of knowing if the remaining vehicles were still chasing the van.

  “The barracks shouldn’t be too much farther,” Captain Chilon said.

  “What will you do once we get there?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Will you lead King Dercyllidas’s backers against the Agesilaus contingent?”

  “I can’t. I’m not a member of the Three Hundred. The officer in charge will make the decision if the king is unable,” Chilon answered. “And he’s out again.”

  Blade glanced back and found the monarch sagging against the captain. “Who is the officer in charge of Dercyllidas’s men?”

  “That would be General Leonidas, one of the most widely respected of all Spartans. He was instrumental in staving off a large force of raiders a couple of years ago.”

  “Then you trust him?”

  “With my life.” They rode in anxious silence for less than a minute.

  “There’s the side street!” Chilon cried.

  Blade had already spotted it and the long structure, which was surrounded on three sides by a wide field. Spartan soldiers were everywhere; some were engaged in gymnastics; some were sparring; some were sharpening their swords; and some were simply conversing. He started to slow and looked to the right.

  Almost an identical scene was on the other side of the road. The barracks building had been constructed a bit farther from the junction, and the level ground around it wasn’t quite as spacious, but there were scores of soldiers involved in similar activities.

  “Neither contingent must know about the fight at the palace,” Rikki observed.

  “No, Agesilaus hasn’t had time to inform his men and General Leonidas will hear the news from us,” Chilon stated.

  Blade took the turn much faster than was safe, the tires sliding, the SEAL threatening to tip over.

  “I’m glad I didn’t eat much breakfast,” Teucer said.

  Twisting the steering wheel, Blade eased up on the brakes and drove toward a pair of wide doors situated at the north end of the barracks. The Spartans were all gazing in consternation at the transport. He brought the van to a full stop within 15 feet of the double doors and rolled down his window. “Is General Leonidas here?”

  A nearby Spartan, who held a freshly sharpened sword in his right hand, answered curtly. “He is, stranger. What’s your business with him?”

  “Get him,” Blade directed.

  “A Spartan doesn’t take orders from an outsider.”

  “Would you rather that your king died?”

  “What?” the Spartan respond, taking a step.

  “Get General Leonidas!” Blade commanded in a voice that carried to all corners of the field.

  Despite the soldier’s aversion to taking orders from outsiders, he’d been conditioned since early childhood to respond automatically to authority.

  That conditioning now compelled him to hasten into the barracks. He instinctively recognized a genuinely authoritarian person when he met one, and the giant impressed him as being a man accustomed to being obeyed.

  Blade glanced at the scores of Spartans all around, who were now moving toward the transport, then at Captain Chilon. “Stay put until I see what kind of reception we get.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” the officer responded.

  “You I trust. But I don’t know this Leonidas. Until I meet him, we’ll sit right where we are.”

  Chilon smiled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were a Spartan.”

  “I’m a Warrior. So are my friends.”

  “Is that a title of some kind?”

  “Yes. Eighteen Family members are selected to serve as guardians of the Home.”

  “Blade is the head Warrior,” Teucer commented.

  The officer nodded. “I would have expected as much.” He regarded each of them. “I saw all three of you in action back there, and I never thought I’d see the day where three outsiders could hold their own against Spartans. Each of you is extremely skilled.”

  “We’ve had lots of practice,” Blade said, gazing at the barracks. No one had yet appeared. He checked the road, but there was no sign of the jeeps.

  “There are a few things I need cleared up. What part will the secret police, the Crypteia, play in the power struggle?”

  “None. Like the regular army, the police won’t interfere. You see, the Crypteia are recruited from the ranks of the army and the bodyguard contingent. Some favor King Dercyllidas, while others prefer Agesilaus.

  And the man who controls the Crypteia, General Agis, toes a fine line of neutrality. He believes in maintaining a balance of power between the monarchs. There isn’t a man alive more devoted to Sparta than him.”

  “Tell me this. During the fight the soldiers relied almost exclusively on their swords. They didn’t resort to their automatic weapons until we were getting into the van. Why?”

  “They didn’t use their assault rifles or submachine guns on each other because it’s against the law for one Spartan to shoot another.”

  “But the men who were defending Dercyllidas might have won if they’d used their guns.”

  “Possibly. But none of them wanted to be permanently banished from Sparta should they do so. When Spartans have disputes, they’re required to settle their differences with swords or in hand-to-hand combat. Guns are strictly forbidden.”

  “They tried to shoot us,” Blade noted.

  “The three of you are outsiders. It’s perfectly legal so shoot outsiders and Helots.”

  Teucer chucked. “Figures.”

  “Wait a minute,” Blade said. “Does this mean the two sides will only use swords if they engage in a pitched battle?”

  “Swords and spears.”

  Blade looked at the barracks again, annoyed at not seeing anyone emerge. Where was General Leonidas? “Something else has been nagging at me. When Agesilaus attacked Dercyllidas there were twenty-four bodyguards with us. Yet almost two thirds sided with the madman. Why weren’t the soldiers evenly divided?”

  Captain Chilon frowned. “They should have been. The law specifically calls for an equal number of bodyguards from each contingent to be on duty at all times. I suspect treachery. Agesilaus is renowned for his devious nature.”

  “Do tell,” Blade said dryly, and at last saw several Spartans step from the barracks. He immediately took a liking to the soldier in the lead, a muscular man four or five inches over six feet in height and endowed with an imposing physique. The man’s helmet shimmered in the bright sunlight.

  “I’m General Leonidas. Who are you and why do you want to see me?”

  “Are you loyal to King Dercyllidas?” Blade asked bluntly.

  The Spartan studied the giant. His features were rugged, his eyes and hair both dark. “If you knew me well, stranger, you’d know that my life is the king’s to do with as he pleases.”

  “And would you protect him with your dying breath?”

  Leonidas smiled. “What a stupid question. I would walk through hell barefoot for my liege.”

  “Good,” Blade said, and opened his door. “Because King Agesilaus has tried to kill him and he needs a doctor.”

  The general s
tiffened. “How do you know? Where is King Dercyllidas? And who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Blade,” the Warrior disclosed, and jerked his right thumb to the rear. “Dercyllidas is in here. He’s been stabbed. Do you have a stretcher?”

  Leonidas turned to another soldier. “Get one immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Spartan said, and ran into the barracks.

  “Do you know Captain Chiton?” Blade queried.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. He can explain everything. He is right behind me with your king.”

  “What’s your—” Leonidas began, then stopped when the metallic rumble of racing engines came from the east.

  Blade twisted and saw a rising cloud of dust drawing steadily nearer.

  The remaining jeeps were back in action. He shifted into park and stepped out of the SEAL. “Hurry and get Dercyllidas out. Those jeeps are filled with Agesilaus’s men.”

  The general turned and pointed at four approaching soldiers. “Over here on the double.”

  They raced to the transport.

  “Climb in and assist Captain Chiton in removing King Dercyllidas. And be gentle,” Leonidas instructed them.

  Blade admired the precision with which the Spartans went about their business. No one pestered the general with meaningless queries. In half a minute they had their monarch out and lowered him to the ground. “We’ll be back,” Blade said, and vaulted into the driver’s seat.

  “Where are you going?” Chiton inquired. He stood next to the general.

  “It’s payback time.”

  “You’re going to try and take out the jeeps?”

  “We’ll buy Leonidas the time he needs to get organized,” Blade said. He backed up, then drove to the side street and took a right.

  The jeeps were 50 yards distant and going over 70 miles an hour.

  “Teucer, be ready,” Blade directed, and swung the SEAL onto the gravel road. He promptly braked and reached for the toggle switches.

  Predictably, the soldiers in the three jeeps opened up, their weapons chattering, the drivers holding the vehicles steady so the gunners could aim with a reasonable degree of accuracy. Two jeeps were speeding abreast of one another while the third trailed by three vehicle lengths.

  Blade waited, letting them get within range, listening to the slugs zing off the windshield.

  Thirty yards separated the jeeps from the transport.

  “When?” Teucer asked, his right hand poised to roll down the window, the bow in his left hand with an arrow already notched.

  “I’ll let you know,” Blade replied, still waiting.

  Twenty yards and closing.

  Rounds were smacking into the SEAL in a continual hail of lead, peppering the van and the puncture-proof tires, buzzing like angry hornets.

  Fifteen yards.

  Blade’s right index finger flicked the switch to activate the rocket launcher. The SEAL shook as the conical projectile shot from its launch tube, a tendril of smoke and flame marking its level trajectory.

  The rocket struck the right-hand jeep in the left headlight.

  A tremendous explosion shook the very earth and a blistering fireball swirled skyward. All three jeeps were totally shrouded in a cloud of flame, smoke, bits of gravel, and dust.

  The concussion buffeted the SEAL, actually sliding the transport backwards a half-dozen yards. Blade was tossed from side to side and front to back, gritting his teeth as he struggled to retain his hold on the steering wheel and his foot on the brake. Out of the corner of his right eye he glimpsed the bowman being thrown into the door. He glanced behind him and saw Rikki gripping the top of the back seat, his face composed, unaffected by the bucking motion.

  As quickly as it occurred, the concussion force of the explosion expended itself. The fireball took a little longer to subside, and the murky cloud persisted for minutes.

  Blade placed his hand near the toggles again, his narrowed eyes probing the roadway. With any luck, the rocket had taken out a pair of jeeps. Conceivably, but not likely, even the third vehicle had been caught in the blast.

  “You cut that a bit close, didn’t you?” Teucer asked.

  “I’ve cut them closer.”

  “Glad I wasn’t along at the time,” the bowman cracked.

  “Traveling with Blade is always an educational experience,” Rikki threw in. “Each time I return to the Home, I seem to have more bumps and bruises than the last trip.”

  “Then why do you volunteer to go on so many runs?” Teucer inquired.

  “Bumps and bruises build character.”

  “Remind me to hear all about your philosophy of life sometime.”

  Blade leaned over the steering wheel, striving to detect any sign of life in the cloud of death and destruction. Nothing appeared, and just when he leaned back, almost convinced the rocket had blown up all three jeeps, the roar of an engine proved his assumption to be wrong. He tramped on the accelerator and backed up, striving to put as much distance between the SEAL and the cloud as he could, vexed at himself for not doing it sooner.

  A jeep barreled into the open, its windshield cracked but otherwise unscathed. Leaning out the passenger side was a Spartan, an assault rifle resting on his right shoulder.

  On his shoulder?

  Blade looked again, and this time he recognized the contours of an Armbrust 700 anti-tank portable missile launcher. A tingle ran along his spine. If he remembered his Warrior training on ordnance and armaments, the Armbrust 700 could penetrate up to 12 inches of armor plating. Even the SEAL might not withstand such firepower.

  The soldier was tracking the front of the van.

  Instantly Blade swerved, attempting to throw the Spartan’s aim off. If he recalled correctly, the primary blast radius for a 700 was 50 feet. If he could only get more than that distance from the jeep, the SEAL might not be damaged. All he needed was a few more seconds.

  He didn’t have them.

  A heartbeat later the soldier fired.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Blade had only a split second to react, and his response was automatic.

  He already knew the SEAL hadn’t covered enough ground to be safe from the missile. He already knew the transport would be caught in the blast radius. And he already knew evasive tactics would be unavailing at such short range. So instead of trying to evade the missile he committed an act of desperation. His right hand hit the switch to the machine guns.

  In a staccato burst of the twin devastators a barrage of lead zinged toward the jeep. With so many rounds filling the air, and with the SEAL and the jeep facing each other when the 50-calibers opened fire, the inevitable occurred. The missile was hit in mid-flight, halfway between the two vehicles, and detonated with an explosion that rivaled the earlier one in intensity.

  Again Blade withstood the harsh buffeting. During those precious seconds he had a chance to think, to recollect every fact he knew about the Armbrust 700. One fact, in particular, gave him a glimmer of hope. When the buffeting ceased, he was ready. Instead of continuing in reverse, he put the van into drive and put the pedal to the metal.

  “All right!” Teucer exclaimed. “Let’s waste these suckers!”

  Blade’s eyes were riveted on the jeep. He had to get within 20 feet of the enemy. If his memory was right, the strategy would win the day. If not, Jenny would soon be a widow.

  The Spartan in the front passenger seat was visible through the bullet-riddled windshield, calmly yet quickly endeavoring to reload the missile launcher. To his left the driver was slumped over the wheel.

  Blade realized some of the rounds must have struck the soldier doing the driving. He kept the accelerator all the way down, rapidly closing the range. “Get set,” he told Teucer.

  Nodding, the bowman rolled down his window and leaned out, the compound bow extended.

  “Wait until I give the word,” Blade admonished.

  “Understood.”

  In the space of seconds the SEAL drew within 40 feet of the jeep. The sold
ier suddenly popped into view again, in the act of raising the launcher to his shoulder.

  No! Not yet! Blade mentally counted off the yardage and recalled the critical information concerning the Armbrust 700. The state-of-the-art weapon had been developed just prior to World War Three and widely distributed to U.S. forces. Intended for use against enemy tanks, the 700 had been designed with a unique safety feature. To prevent an accidental detonation as the missile was being fired, which sometimes occurred with conventional launchers, the manufacturers of the 700 had incorporated a computerized chip, a smart chip as they were known, into the hollow-charge missile. The projectile actually armed itself after 20 feet of flight. Prior to that range and the 700 wouldn’t explode.

  But the SEAL wasn’t close enough yet.

  They needed a few more seconds.

  “Shoot!” Blade ordered, knowing the angle wasn’t right, knowing the bowman couldn’t possibly score, but banking on the reflex action of anyone who found an arrow headed toward them.

  Teucer already had the string pulled back to just below his right ear. He sighted and released the shaft in the twinkling of an eye, then grabbed another one.

  The Spartan ducked back the instant the arrow cleared the bow, his aim spoiled, and nearly lost his life then and there when the shaft struck the windshield a few inches to his left, punctured through the glass in a shower of shards and fragments, and thudded into the edge of the seat. He swung out again and swept the Armbrust 700 onto his shoulder.

  Blade slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel briskly, slanting the SEAL, intending to pass the jeep on the passenger side.

  The Spartan let the missile fly.

  Blade saw the projectile leap toward the transport, and the next sequence of events transpired so swiftly they were over in an instant. The missile struck the SEAL’s grill and bounced off without detonating, its smart chip thwarted because the two vehicles were only 15 feet apart.

  Teucer loosed his second shaft simultaneously, and this time he had a clear shot.