Cincinnati Run Read online

  “How do you figure that?”

  “You were the one who couldn’t outrun an overfed pack of farm dogs,” Blade remarked, and headed for the jeep.

  “Somebody around here definitely needs a vacation,” Hickok muttered.

  Blade ignored the gunman and hurried to the vehicle. “At least we got one,” he commented to Geronimo.

  “What was that move you pulled?” Geronimo inquired. “Were you trying to make them laugh so hard they’d drop their weapons?”

  “Go help Hickok,” Blade stated. “After the bodies are concealed, strip off the uniforms. I’ll keep an eye on our friend.” He pointed the Commando at the driver.

  “I am not your friend, pig!” the soldier snapped. He was in his thirties, a husky trooper with sandy hair and blue eyes. His pudgy features were set defiantly, and his double chin quivered as he tried to suppress his rage at the deaths of his comrades.

  “Oink,” Geronimo said, and jogged toward Hickok.

  “Put the jeep in park and raise your hands,” Blade commanded.

  The trooper glowered at the giant. “You will pay for what you have done, bastard!”

  “Do it or die,” Blade stated grimly.

  His lips curling in a scowl, the pudgy Russian stared at the Commando for a second, then complied.

  “What’s your name?” Blade asked.

  “Vsevolod Fedorov.”

  “How about if I just call you Fred?”

  “Screw you, shithead.”

  Blade took a step nearer and smacked the Commando barrel against the trooper’s nose.

  Fedorov screeched and cupped his hands over his nostrils. “Damn you! You broke it!” he cried.

  “Not yet,” Blade responded, “but I will if you give me any more lip. Now raise those hands!”

  Hesitantly, tears of frustration welling in his eyes, his nose throbbing in anguish, Fedorov slowly elevated his arms.

  “That’s better. Are you based in Cincinnati?”

  Fedorov gazed straight ahead, deliberately averting his eyes. His lips twitched, but he refused to answer.

  Blade sighed and touched the barrel to the soldier’s left cheek. “I don’t have time to play games with you. If you won’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll kill you now and find another Russian trooper who will.”

  Fedorov looked at the Warrior with hatred in his eyes. “Who are you kidding? You’ll kill me anyway, whether I talk or not. So shoot me and get it over with!”

  “If you cooperate, I won’t kill you.”

  “Ha! I don’t believe you.”

  Blade shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ve given you my word, but if you want to die needlessly, that’s your business.”

  “I’m not a traitor.”

  “Of course you’re not. You’re a loyal Communist and you believe in every word of The Communist Manifesto.”

  Fedorov’s forehead furrowed.

  “You’re ready to die for Mother Russia, the country you were born and reared in,” Blade went on, knowing full well that his statements were inaccurate. During the course of the Family’s previous dealings with the Soviets, the Warriors had learned crucial details concerning the Russian invasion of America.

  The Soviet Union had successfully occupied a section of the eastern United States during the war, but their drive in the west, a push through Alaska and western Canada spearheaded by armored divisions, was stopped cold in British Columbia by the harshest winter weather in centuries. The Russians consolidated their iron grip on the territory they controlled in the eastern U.S., but a severe shortage of armaments, ammunition, general supplies, and replacement personnel prevented them from penetrating past the Mississippi River or expanding into the deep South. For 70 years they maintained communications with the Motherland. The commanders of the Russian occupation forces pleaded for more troops, more tanks, and more supplies. Except for infrequent shipments, their pleas were largely ignored.

  The Soviet Union was having problems of its own. Russia’s industrial capacity had been reduced to almost nil by the American nuclear strikes, and the U.S.S.R. rapidly depleted its natural resources. To compound the Communists’ problem, that which they feared most happened; the ethnic groups they had oppressed for scores of years finally saw their chance and rebelled. The Tartars and the Baits, the Mordivians and the Udmurts, and every other group the Communist Party had tyrannized rose up against their former masters.

  To their dismay, the Russian forces in America became stranded, trapped in the very country they had sought to conquer. All broadcasts and cryptographic contact with the Soviet Union inexplicably ceased. A few ships and planes were sent to investigate and never returned. Thrown on their own resources, with their provisions low and their morale even lower, the Russian commanders established a dictatorial system as ruthless as Stalin’s. Slave-labor camps were set up, summary executions were conducted routinely, and an American branch of the KGB went into operation. All industries still operational were rechanneled for Soviet purposes. The section of America under Communist rule became a carbon copy of the Motherland.

  The Russians were able to manufacture the ammunition they required for their AK-47s and other small arms. Their helicopter fleet was their primary military focus; every available plant capable of being modified to produce helicopter parts was put into service. Their efforts to keep their jets in the air, however, met with failure. They lacked the resources and facilities to construct the specialized jet parts, and eventually their Air Force consisted solely of helicopters.

  Another major problem involved their shortage of replacement personnel. They realized attrition would gradually reduce their force to undesirable levels unless drastic measures were taken. So a system of modified racial breeding was instituted, in which selected American women were forcibly impregnated and compelled to give birth. The children were then turned over to the State and raised in Russian-regulated dormitories, where they were subjected to intensive indoctrination. Communism was extolled, Russian history and values were inculcated, and every aspect of the education and training the orphans received was designed to create soldiers and citizens as loyal as they would have been had they been reared in the U.S.S.R.

  Blade knew all of this, and the look of confusion on Fedorov’s face almost made him laugh. “I admire a man willing to die for a cause he believes in. I’m sure your parents will be proud of you.”

  “I don’t have any parents,” Fedorov said.

  “No? Then I’d imagine your sergeant and your commanding officer will be equally pleased by your loyalty,” Blade said. “Of course, they’ll never know how brave you were.” He lowered his chin and sighted on the soldier’s left ear.

  Vsevolod Fedorov was chewing on his lower lip. He glanced at the Commando barrel and gulped.

  “So long,” Blade said, tightening his grip.

  “Hold it!” Fedorov blurted. “Don’t shoot!”

  Blade straightened. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Look, mister, I don’t want to die. I’ve never been to Russia. I was raised at a State School, and I was told my parents died shortly after I was born. My sergeant is a son of a bitch, and my commanding officer couldn’t care less about my welfare.”

  “So you’ll cooperate in exchange for your life?”

  Fedorov grinned weakly. “What do you want to know?”

  Chapter Ten

  “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Just drive.”

  “All I agreed to do was answer your questions,” Fedorov complained.

  “You never said anything about bringing you to Cincinnati.”

  “Think of yourself as our chaperon,” Blade suggested.

  “I’ll wind up in front of a firing squad for this,” Fedorov said.

  “Only if we’re caught,” Blade noted. “You’d better hope we’re not.”

  Federov turned the steering wheel to negotiate a curve. “I would have been better off if you shot me,” he mumbled.

  “That can always be arrang
ed, cow-chip,” Hickok mentioned from his seat behind the Russian. “I’m gettin’ tired of hearin’ you flap your gums.”

  He looked down at himself. “And I feel downright naked without my buckskins.”

  “You smell better in a Soviet uniform,” Geronimo remarked, sitting in the cramped back seat next to the gunman.

  “What’s that crack supposed to mean?” Hickok asked.

  “After a heavy rain you always smell like a doe in heat,” Geronimo mentioned casually.

  “I do not.”

  “Stand outside for a while the next time it rains, then go in your cabin and take a whiff. I’m surprised Sherry hasn’t told you about the odor.”

  “You’re makin’ this up to get my goat,” Hickok declared.

  “I didn’t know you owned one.”

  Fedorov glanced at the giant beside him. “Are you guys escapees from a State Mental Health Ward?”

  Blade gazed at the trooper. “No. Where would you ever get an idea like that?”

  “Nowhere,” Fedorov said, and concentrated on his driving.

  The head Warrior grinned as he stared through the windshield at the street ahead. They were winding through a residential neighborhood two miles northwest of downtown Cincinnati, and on both sides were modest frame or brick homes, most in dire need of a fresh coat of paint or repair.

  Most driveways were empty, although a few antique automobiles were in evidence in the drives of the infrequently encountered residences which had been fully restored. Children played in yards or on the sidewalks, while the adults lounged on porches or congregated for conversations at the street corners. Most of the adults gave the jeep an openly hostile stare, but the youngsters, involved with their playing, scarcely noticed.

  “This isn’t what I expected,” Blade commented.

  “What did you expect?” Fedorov queried.

  Blade shrugged. “Bars on every window. Armed soldiers patrolling every road. Checkpoints at every intersection.”

  “There are checkpoints at the major entry points into the city,” Fedorov said. “But there aren’t enough soldiers to cover every secondary road and side street. If we’re lucky, we’ll reach our destination without being spotted by a patrol.”

  “What’s with all these folks?” Hickok asked. “Why are they allowed to roam free?”

  “They can’t go anywhere,” Fedorov responded. “Most of them don’t own cars, and they wouldn’t get very far outside the city on foot. Our helicopters would nail them if our road patrols didn’t.”

  “We got through,” Hickok mentioned.

  “You were lucky.”

  “We call it skill,” Geronimo interjected.

  “These people don’t have your luck or your skill,” Fedorov said. “They’re stuck here for the rest of their miserable lives.”

  “Do they own these homes?” Blade questioned.

  “Of course not. The State owns everything. As long as they behave, the State allows them to live in a designated house. A lot of them like to think the home they live in is theirs, but they’re just kidding themselves.”

  Blade stared at the deceptively tranquil setting, pondering. Apparently the Russian subjugation of the urban centers was thorough and stifling, in contrast to the Soviets’ lax attitude toward the rural areas. The Russians tended to concentrate their activities in the cities, which explained their urban regimentation. And the strategy made sense. The cities were the hubs of commerce and culture; anyone who dominated the urban centers held the upper hand over the outlying areas. If nothing else, the Russians were systemical and logical in their methods.

  Fedorov came to an intersection and took a right.

  “How much farther?” Blade inquired.

  “About a mile and a half,” Fedorov answered.

  “Tell me again about the installation,” Blade directed.

  “I’ve already gone over it twice,” Fedorov groused.

  “Humor me.”

  The soldier sighed, then tensed when a car approached from the opposite direction. He relaxed once he perceived the brown sedan was not a military vehicle. “All the information I’ve heard, you understand, is secondhand. Friends of mine who were assigned as perimeter guards told me about this place.”

  “Construction began about a year ago?”

  “Yeah. There used to be a school at the same site, some kind of religious school I believe. The name of the place was the College of Mount Something-or-Other, and it was abandoned during World War Three. Then about a year ago construction crews arrived there, and they started repairing the damaged buildings and erecting new ones. A huge wall was built, enclosing everything. Barbed wire was strung up on top of the walls. There must be hundreds of people working there, scientists and what not, but the projects they’re working on are hush-hush. The guards stay in a barracks near the front gate. No one can get on the premises without a special pass, and certain buildings are off limits except for those with a Top Secret clearance.”

  “Sounds like what we’re looking for,” Geronimo said.

  “I heard that the place is run by the Ministry of Defense,” Fedorov divulged. “But that wouldn’t explain all the scientists unless the Ministry of Science is working with the Ministry of Defense.”

  “Does that ever happen?” Blade questioned.

  “All the time. The military runs the show.”

  They continued in silence for 15 minutes, with Fedorov taking the least-frequented streets and back roads, traversing several steep hills as they wound ever lower toward the Ohio River. The city of Cincinnati was arranged in a succession of gradual terraces. The residential neighborhoods were largely concentrated on the steep hills, some of which rose over 450 feet above the Ohio River. Comprising the second level was the former business district; where State-managed shops now offered limited selections for the “liberated working class,” as Fedorov described the shabbily dressed customers for the benefit of the Warriors. On the lowest level, approximately 60 feet above the low-water mark of the Ohio River, was the manufacturing section of the metropolis.

  Blade gazed at the meandering, murky Ohio, and observed a half-dozen boats and one ship, a freighter, plying the waters of the river. According to the Atlas in the SEAL, Cincinnati had served as a transportation hub for the United States prior to the nuclear exchange, and the Soviets were likewise utilizing the city’s unique geographic characteristics wisely. While the Ohio River constituted a natural boundary to the south, two other rivers were also of importance, the Little Miami to the east and the Great Miami to the west. Perhaps, Blade speculated, the city’s prominence as a transportation center accounted for the fact the Russians had not nuked it.

  “Are we getting close?” Blade queried impatiently.

  “Close,” Fedorov assured him.

  Blade twisted in his seat, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the tight-fitting Russian uniform taken from the tallest trooper. The clothes barely fit; the sleeves rode two inches above his wrists, the lower hem of the pants covered the top inch of his combat boots, and the pants threatened to split at the seam with every breath he took. His vest and fatigue pants were bundled under the seat. The Commando rested on his lap, while his Bowies were tucked underneath his shirt, supported by the narrow belt worn by all Soviet troopers. He stared to the west at the setting sun, pleased that twilight was rapidly descending.

  “What do you want me to do when we get there?” Fedorov asked.

  “Can we drive past the installation without attracting attention?”

  “Sure. Delhi Road goes right past the front wall.”

  “Then do it.”

  Fedorov took a left, then a right, and ultimately turned onto Delhi Road. He flicked on the headlights.

  More vehicles were in evidence, dozens of them traveling in both directions. Very few were civilian automobiles.

  Hickok leaned forward and placed the AR-15 barrel behind Fedorov’s right ear. “One false move, you coyote, and I’ll ventilate your noggin.”

  Fedo
rov licked his thick lips and wiped the palm of his left hand on his shirt. “What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

  “The cream of the crop.”

  Fedorov tried to swivel his head to look at the gunman, but the AR-15 barrel jammed into his ear. “I’ve helped you so far.”

  “So far,” Hickok conceded.

  “Then why not take that gun away from my ear?”

  “Can’t. The front sight has grown real attached to your earlobe.”

  “You’re weird. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Practically everyone,” Geronimo chimed in. “But it’s difficult to impress a point on someone who has the cranial capacity of marble.”

  “You’re both weird,” Fedorov declared.

  Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “Cranial capacity? Have you been readin’ Plato’s books again?”

  “I don’t need to read Plato’s books. I can recognize a rock formation when I see one.”

  Fedorov cleared his throat and looked at Blade. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “What?”

  “Are these two guys always like this?”

  Blade nodded.

  “I don’t see how you put up with it,” Fedorov commented.

  “I look at it as good practice.”

  “Practice?”

  “I have a three-year-old.”

  Fedorov nodded. “I see.”

  “I think we’ve just been insulted,” Hickok said.

  “I know we’ve just been insulted,” Geronimo amended.

  They continued to the west and came to an intersection, crossing Anderson Ferry Road and proceeding another quarter of a mile.

  Hickok glanced out his window, his blue eyes widening slightly. “What the dickens is that!” he exclaimed.

  “That’s the installation,” Fedorov said.

  Blade bent down and stared to the left, marveling at the size of the facility, impressed by the magnitude of every structure. The outer stone walls were 40 feet high and crowned with another six feet of thorny barbed wire. Positioned on the rim of the wall at 20-foot intervals were huge spotlights, all of which were already on. Rearing above the wall on the far side were enormous buildings, architectural behemoths fabricated from stone and glass, startlingly futuristic and incongruous in the otherwise run down and neglected metropolis. The centerpiece of the mysterious installation was a tremendous silver spire capped by a crystal globe 30 feet in diameter. Blade estimated the spire towered 500 feet in the air.