Liberty Run

Chapter Fourteen

“What the hell are they trying to pull?” Blade snapped.

“Beats me,” Sundance admitted.

“Maybe they weren’t after us at all,” Nick commented.

The headlights behind them, after trailing the jeep for several miles, had turned off the highway.

“I don’t get it,” Blade said. “First, they almost catch up to us. Then they fall back and follow us for a while. Now, they’re taking off. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Who said the damn Commies have to make sense?” Nick asked.

Blade sighed. He was still experiencing a premonition of danger. But why?

“Take a left up ahead,” Nick directed. “Stick with me, boys, and old Nick will guide you right up to the detention facility’s front door.”

“You’d do that for us?” Sundance queried.

“Hey! What are friends for?” Nick remarked light-heartedly. He patted Blade on the back. “Right, Warrior?”

And suddenly Blade recognized the source of his apprehension. The trifling inconsistencies accumulated into a plausible explanation, the only explanation possible under the circumstances. He smiled at Nick in the rearview mirror. “Right, Freeb,” he replied.

Nick grinned. “Glad to see you’re comin’ around to my way of thinkin’!”

“I may be slow,” Blade said, “but I catch on eventually.” He glanced at Sundance.

Sundance grinned and nodded. “About time.”

Blade realized Sundance had beaten him to the punch. How? What were the clues he had missed?

They drove to the southeast, Blade heeding Nick’s infallible directions, using back roads until they reached the Schuykill Expressway.

“Just follow this south,” Nick instructed them once they were on the Expressway. “We’ll be there before you know it.”

“I can hardly wait,” Blade mentioned. There were few vehicles on the road at such an early hour, and he maintained the speed at 50 miles an hour. Twice military transports passed on the opposite side of the Expressway traveling to the north.

“Look for the City Line exit,” Nick advised.

“Will do,” Blade stated.

The jeep reached the specified exit within minutes.

Blade wheeled onto City Line Avenue, moving to the southwest. A bakery truck approached from the other direction, conducting its morning deliveries.

“You want to make a left on Belmont Avenue,” Nick disclosed.

Blade did, and a sign loomed ahead.

“The Vladimir I. Lenin Ministry of Psychological Sciences,” Sundance read aloud. “Two miles.”

“That’s it!” Nick declared. “That’s the place you want!”

“That’s the detention facility?” Blade queried.

“That’s it,” Nick confirmed.

“You’re sure?” Blade persisted.

“Of course I’m sure!” Nick retorted, annoyed. “Have I lied to you yet?”

Sundance began scratching at his chest. He idly started unbuttoning his uniform shirt.

Blade glanced over his right shoulder. “I doubt I could count all the lies.”

Nick bristled angrily. “What the hell are you ravin’ about?”

“Just this,” Sundance stated, spinning in his seat, a gleaming Grizzly in his right hand.

Nick’s eyes widened. “Hold on there, boy! What is this?”

“You tell us,” Blade said.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Nick averred.

Blade looked at Sundance. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

“Gladly,” Sundance agreed. He leaned toward Nick.

“If you don’t cut the crap, right now, I’m going to plant a bullet right between your eyes.”

Nick was gawking from Sundance to Blade in bewilderment.

“The next words out of your mouth better be truthful ones,” Sundance warned. “What’s your real name?”

Nick’s shoulders slumped. “Georgiy Bakunin.”

“Your rank?”

Bakunin frowned. “Captain.”

“You’re out of uniform, aren’t you, Captain?” Sundance asked sarcastically.

Bakunin motioned with his left hand toward his face. “May I?”

“Only if you do it real slow,” Sundance cautioned. “Twitch the wrong way and you’re history.”

Bakunin slowly raised his left hand and gripped the top of his long gray beard. He tugged on the upper right corner and his “beard” flopped to the floor.

“What about the hair?” Sundance queried.

“Dyed,” Bakunin revealed. He ran his hand over his face, removing his “wrinkles.”

“And the missing teeth?” Sundance said.

Bakunin reached his fingers into his mouth, scraping and pulling, and a minute later extracted a gummy black substance. His four upper front teeth miraculously reappeared.

“Pretty clever,” Sundance conceded.

“Wha’t did I do wrong?” Bakunin asked in a pained tone.

“You figure it out for yourself,” Sundance said.

“I’d like to know,” Bakunin stated.

Sundance wagged the Grizzly barrel. “Don’t press it. I’ll pose the questions. What were you doing in that abandoned house?”

“Waiting for Packrats,” Bakunin answered.

“You’re a Hunter,” Sundance deduced.

Bakunin nodded.

“You kill kids for a living,” Sundance growled.

“No!” Bakunin said hastily. “It’s required for all officers in Elite Branch.”

“There’s something I’d like to know,” Blade interrupted, concentrating on his driving. “Why’d you string us along? Why’d you help us get this far? Why didn’t you turn us in back at the garrison in Norristown?”

“I wanted to discover the reason you were here,” Bakunin explained. “Find out what your connection to the Vikings might be.”

“So you let us jump your comrades in Norristown,” Sundance commented. “Didn’t it bother you, knowing they could be hurt, or worse?”

“We must all make sacrifices for the cause,” Bakunin said.

“The cause?” Sundance repeated quizzically.

“For the greater glory of Communism,” Bakunin stated proudly.

“How did you know we were Warriors?” Blade interjected.

“You told—!” Bakunin started to reply, then angrily smacked his right palm against his forehead. “What an idiot I’ve been!”

“I wouldn’t say you’re an idiot,” Sundance said. “Stupid, maybe, but not a complete idiot.”

“How did you know we were Warriors?” Blade repeated his question.

Bakunin stared at the giant Warrior. “Your name was vaguely familiar. Something about it rang a bell. And then I remembered the incident in Washington, the one involving another Warrior named Hickok, I believe. And I recalled seeing an intelligence report on your Family.”

“The information the spy in Denver uncovered,” Blade speculated.

“We have a spy in Denver?” Bakunin asked innocently.

“What did this intelligence report say?” Sundance queried.

“It was merely a brief rundown on your Family,” Bakunin replied. “A capsule summary of your Family’s known history, organization, and leadership. It included a section on the Warriors, and contained a paragraph on the head of the Warriors. A man of gigantic proportions. A man named Blade.”

Another sign materialized ahead, displaying an arrow indicating the direction they should travel to reach the Ministry of Psychological Sciences.

Blade took a left.

“Uh-oh,” Sundance commented.

Five hundred yards to the southeast was a huge stone wall, 15 feet in height, capped with another 4 feet of barbed wire. A latticed iron gate, now closed, provided the only means of entering the Ministry. Four soldiers stood outside the gate.

Blade spotted a turnoff to the right and took it. The jeep lurched as he spun the steering wheel sharply, and then they were on a quiet side road.

A stand of trees and brush screened the jeep from the guards at the iron gate. He braked the jeep.

“Now what do we do?” Sundance inquired.

“We proceed with the mission,” Blade said.

“But how do we know this jerk was telling the truth about this place?”

Sundance asked. “How do we know it’s even a detention facility? Bakunin never said the Vikings were here for sure.”

Blade glanced at the Russian. “No, he didn’t. But so far, all the directions he’s supplied have been right on the mark. Oh, he lied about who he was and lied to gain our confidence. But he told the truth about the garrison in Norristown, and about how to get to Norristown from Valley Forge. He didn’t want us to know he was a soldier, didn’t want us to discover his secret before he discovered ours, so he gave us accurate directions, expecting us to trust him, hoping we would blurt out the information he wanted. He couldn’t come right out and say he definitely knew where the Vikings were being held, because that would have been too obvious, too suspicious. But he could, and did, give us a viable lead. I could be wrong, but I think he was telling the truth about the Ministry.

The Vikings might well be there.”

Sundance nodded toward Bakunin. “What do we do about him?”

Blade studied the captain. The wisest recourse was to kill Bakunin and dump his body in the weeds. Leaving the Russian alive needlessly invited trouble. If they tied him up, Bakunin might escape and alert the Ministry guards. A true expert could always slip free of constraints if given enough time. Blade seriously considered slitting Bakunin’s throat, but then his conversation with Plato concerning excessive brutality flashed through his mind and he frowned. “We’ll tie him up,” he stated.

“You’re the boss,” Sundance said, “but if it was up to me, I’d waste the son of a bitch right now.”

Blade nodded. “I agree with you.”

“What? Then why are we going soft on him?” Sundance responded in surprise.

“It’s something Plato said,” Blade revealed. “About us not stooping to their level.”

“Plato isn’t a Warrior,” Sundance stated cryptically.

Blade knew Sundance was right, but he didn’t want to debate the issue.

His affection for his mentor overrode his seasoned inclination. Just this once, he told himself, he’d do it Plato’s way. Give Plato’s outlook a chance.

And hope he wouldn’t live to regret it.

But he did.

“We don’t have any rope,” Sundance mentioned.

“We’ll improvise,” Blade said. He slid his right Bowie from under his shirt.

“What’s that for?” Bakunin asked when he saw the big knife.

“I thought I’d carve my name on your forehead,” Blade quipped. He shifted in his seat, examining its fabric. The back of the seat was covered by a leather-like, durable material. He inserted his knife into the fabric and began slicing wide strips from the seat.

“Cup your hands together and hold your arms out toward Blade,” Sundance directed the captain.

Bakunin complied.

Blade swiftly bound the Russian, applying the strips to the officer’s wrists and ankles, cutting additional strips as needed.

“You are cutting off my circulation,” Bakunin said at one point.

“Should we cry now or later?” Sundance retorted.

Blade applied two strips around Bakunin’s mouth, effectively gagging the Soviet officer. “This should keep you comfy until we return.” He eased his Bowie under his shirt.

Bakunin’s eyes were simmering pools of hatred.

Blade accelerated, seeking another turnoff. He found a field after driving 60 yards, an overgrown patch of weeds and brush to his left, and he angled the jeep into the densest undergrowth. He stopped when he was satisfied the jeep was concealed from passersby on the road. “This will suffice,” he announced, and switched off the ignition, placing the keys in his right front pants pocket.

Sundance replaced his Grizzly under his shirt. “What’s our first move?”

he queried as he buttoned up.

“We’ll see how close we can get to that wall,” Blade said. “Check out the layout.”

Sundance grabbed his FN 50-63 and exited the jeep.

Blade verified the strips binding Bakunin were tight, then patted the captain on the head. “I want to thank you for your assistance. We couldn’t have done it without you.” He chuckled.

Bakunin vented his anger in a string of expletives, his words muffled by the gag.

“Be nice,” Blade baited him. “And make yourself right at home. We’ll be back in a bit.” He climbed from the jeep, clutching the Commando in his right hand.

Sundance was waiting at the front of the vehicle.

Blade took the lead, moving off into the brush, heading for a row of trees close to the wall. Bright lights were discernible through the trees.

A tinge of faint light rimmed the eastern horizon.

“We’ll have to hurry!” Blade remarked. “Dawn isn’t far off.”

Sundance nodded.

The two Warriors jogged to the row of trees and took cover behind two maple trunks, Sundance to Blade’s right.

Blade peered around the bole of the tree, scanning the landscape ahead.

A field, 20 yards in width, separated the trees from the stone wall.

Brilliant spotlights were attached at regular intervals along the top of the wall, aligned toward the field. A half-dozen towering structures reared skyward on the far side of the wall.

Sundance uttered a low whistle.

Blade glanced to the right.

Two soldiers were strolling along the base of the wall, AK-47’s slung over their shoulders, coming toward the Warriors.

Blade ducked from sight. Gaining entrance to the Ministry promised to be extremely difficult. Crossing the field unseen, if guards were posted on the wall, would be impossible. And sneaking in the front gate was a ludicrous notion.

Or was it?

Blade waited until the two guards passed and were 50 yards off, nearing the gate. He waved to Sundance, then followed the guards, staying behind the trees.

The guards ambled at a leisurely pace.

Sundance caught up with Blade. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

“There’s no way we’ll get over that wall,” Blade responded. “Not with all the lights and the barbed wire and the guards.”

“So how do we get inside?”

“I’m working on that,” Blade informed him.

The pair of patrolling guards reached the gate and halted, engaging the quartet of soldiers already there in conversation.

Blade edged to within 20 yards of the front gate, then squatted in the shelter of a large oak.

Sundance joined the head Warrior.

The light on the eastern horizon was increasing.

Blade scrutinized the wall, at a loss for an idea to penetrate the Ministry’s defenses.

A muted rumble sounded from the northwest.

Blade glanced over his left shoulder.

A truck was slowly approaching the gate, still about 400 yards distant.

Blade squinted, striving to identify the truck. He wasn’t worried about being observed by the truck’s occupants; the trees were plunged in murky shadows.

The truck drove nearer.

Blade perceived the truck wasn’t a military vehicle. It was white, with a small cab and a square body.

The truck was 350 yards off.

Blade glanced at the gate, then the truck.

The truck reached the 300-yard mark.

Blade turned to Sundance. “I don’t have time to explain. I want you to stay here, right here, until I signal you or return.”

“What? Where are you going?” Sundance asked.

“No time,” Blade stated, and rose. He ran to the rear, keeping in the darkest areas, racing parallel with the road. His plan was perilous, but if he succeeded, he would be inside the Ministry in a matter of minutes. But he had to reach the 100-yard mark before the white truck.

The truck was 250 yards from the gate.

Blade sprinted full out, his eyes glued to the inky section of road next to an enormous willow tree. If he could reach that spot before the truck, and if his estimation of the truck’s size was accurate, he could carry it off.

If.

The white truck was now 200 yards from the front gate.

Blade almost stumbled over a root. He recovered and sped toward the willow.

One hundred eighty yards.

Bladfe wished there had been time to detail his intent to Sundance. He knew Sundance would chafe at being left behind, but both of them trying for the truck was unrealistic, increasing their risk of detection. And as the tallest, Blade stood the best chance of accomplishing the maneuver.

One hundred sixty yards.

Damn! His legs ached! Blade ignored the pain, pounding forward, breathing deeply.

One hundred fifty yards.

If he tripped again, he was lost.

One hundred forty.

Blade slowed, slinging the Commando over his right shoulder.

One hundred thirty.

Blade reached the cover of the willow and pressed against its rough trunk, the bark scraping his right cheek.

One hundred twenty.

He would only get one try. If he blew it, they could forget locating the Vikings in the Ministry. If the Vikings were even there.

If again.

One hundred ten.

Blade tensed, watching the tires turn as the white truck neared the willow tree. He estimated the truck was moving at 30 miles an hour.

The white truck reached the spreading willow, was abreast of the trunk for an instant, and then was past the willow, proceeding toward the gate.

Blade was in motion as the truck came even with the willow. He darted around the trunk and dashed the five feet to the road, reaching the rear corner, his legs churning to keep pace, his arms outstretched, his fingers grasping for a purchase. For a second, the outcome was in doubt. And then his fingers closed on the corner, his nails gaining a slight hold on the metal, but it was enough for him to exert his tremendous strength, to tug on the corner, to pull his body that much closer to the rear panel of the vehicle, and there was a door handle in the center of the white panel. His left arm swung out, and he grabbed the handle and held on for dear life.

The strain was incredible. His feet left the road, and for a moment he was hanging by one hand as his right was wrenched from the corner. He clawed at the handle with his right hand, gripping the cool metal, and used his added leverage to haul himself onto the rear fender.

The truck was 80 yards from the iron gate.

Blade glanced up. The roof was eight feet above his head. He steeled his leg muscles and leaped, his arms straight overhead, and his hands clasped the lip of the roof as his knees banged against the rear panel. He grimaced as he clung to the roof, knowing he must keep moving or he would falter and fall to the asphalt. His arms bulged, his neck muscles protruding, as he pulled himself up onto the roof.

Fifty yards from the dull horizontal and vertical iron bars.

Blade rolled to the middle of the roof. Two of his fingers were bleeding and his left knee was throbbing. But he’d done it!

The small white truck was reducing its speed. There was a slight squeaking noise from the cab, from the driver’s side, as if the driver was rolling his window down.

Only four guards were at the gate. The two on patrol, Blade reasoned, must have resumed their rounds.

The truck came to a halt in front of the gate. “Hi, Tim,” said one of the guards. “You’re late.”

“I had to wait for them to get their asses in gear at my last stop,” the driver, evidently the man named Tim, stated. “They couldn’t find a bag of dirty aprons from last night.”

“There’s a note attached to my clipboard,” the guard said. “They want you to pick up a load from Penza Hall.”

“All right,” the driver responded. “But I hope they have it all on the loading dock. I hate going into that place. It gives me the creeps.”

“Just be thankful you’re not in there as a permanent resident,” the guard remarked, grinning.

“Don’t even joke about a thing like that,” Tim said. “I’m not an enemy of the State.”

The guard snickered. He motioned toward the gate. “Open it!” he ordered.

The three other guards obeyed.

Blade, lying as flat as possible on the roof, felt the truck vibrate as it passed the iron gate. He’d made it! He was inside the Ministry of Psychological Sciences!

Now what?

The white truck took a right, along a narrow, tree-lined road. Few people were abroad.

Blade could hear the driver whistling as he drove. What was this Tim picking up at Penza Hall? And why was the driver so leery of the place?

What was it Tim had said to the guard? “I’m not an enemy of the State.”

Was Penza Hall a prison? Hardly likely, if the complex was devoted to the Psychological Sciences. Unless, Blade speculated, Penza Hall was devoted to psychological manipulations instead of simple physical incarceration. He recalled a portion of his Warrior course at the Home, a study of the psychological-warfare techniques employed by the superpowers and others before the Big Blast. The Russians, in particular, masters of mind manipulation, and at extracting important data from recalcitrant subjects. Perhaps Penza Hall was where such “extractions” were made. If so, then Penza Hall might be where the Vikings were being interrogated.

The truck took a left, driving between two high buildings, each over ten stories in height.

Blade peered up at the windows, hoping no one was gazing through them at the road below.

The white truck turned to the right, slowing.

Blade rose on his elbows and scanned the road ahead. They were entering an expansive parking lot. Across the lot was a gigantic structure, only four stones high but encompassing at least five or six acres. Most of the windows in the edifice were dark; only three or four displayed any light. The truck was making for a loading dock stacked with crates and boxes. Two enormous doors, both closed, each large enough to accommodate a troop transport or a tractor-trailer, framed the wall behind the loading dock.

The driver ceased whistling.

Blade lowered his head, waiting with baited breath as the truck braked alongside the loading dock. He heard a door slam and risked a look.

The driver, a lean individual in jeans and a blue jacket, was ascending the ramp to the loading dock, a tablet in his left hand. He walked to the right of the two immense doors, up to a small metal door. He reached up and pressed a button encased in the brown wall.

Blade detected a faint ringing from within the building. He gazed at the structure, attempting to determine the material used in its construction.

The brown wall appeared to be a form of stone, but he doubted stone was the material used. Was it a plastic designed to simulate the appearance of stone? Or was it a substance the Soviets had developed since the Big Blast?

The small door suddenly opened, and a brawny soldier stood in the doorway. “Yes?” he demanded.

The driver pointed toward his truck. “They told me at the gate you have a pickup.”

The guard glanced at the white truck. “Sure do. Wait right here.” He started to turn, then paused. “On second thought, why don’t you come with me?”

Tim fidgeted nervously. “Do I have to?”

The guard grinned. “Afraid so. There’s about eight or nine bins. I’m not going to lug it all down here by myself.”

Tim shrugged. “Then let’s hop to it.”

The guard and the driver disappeared inside.

Blade saw his chance. He rolled to the right and dropped from the roof, alighting on his hands and feet, his arches stinging from the impact.

No one else was in sight.

Blade stood and headed for the ramp. As he did, he noticed the sign on the side panel of the white truck: CENTRAL LAUNDRY. A laundry truck?

The Ministry sent its soiled garments and whatever to another establishment to be cleaned? Why not clean them on the premises?

Perhaps because doing so would entail a permanent cleaning staff at the Ministry, and such a staff would present a security problem. What was the old saying? Loose lips sink ships? Considering the security clamped on the Ministry, the higher-ups undoubtedly wanted to minimize the presence of non-essential personnel. He reached the ramp and raced up to the loading dock.

A crack of light rimmed the small door.

Blade jogged to the door and halted, unslinging the Commando. The door was slightly ajar! When the guard and driver had entered Penza Hall, they had failed to push the door closed! Maybe because they would be returning with their arms laden with laundry. He used his left hand to ease the door open.

A gloomy, deserted hallway was on the other side.

Blade ducked through the door and flattened against the left-hand wall.

The hallway ended at a yellow door 20 yards away. Other doors lined the hallway, four on the left, three on the right.

There was no time to lose! The guard and the driver might return at any moment!

Blade reached the first door on the left. It was open, revealing a spacious chamber filled with stacks of wooden crates and cardboard boxes.

The yellow door at the end of the hall started to swing open.

Blade slid into the storage chamber and hid behind a stack of crates as the hallway filled with a peculiar squeaking.

“…three more loads,” said the voice of the guard.

“Thanks for doing this,” stated the driver. “Rostov always makes me go up and get it by myself.”

“Rostov is a prick,” the guard stated.

Blade heard the metal door open, and he padded to the doorway and risked a peek around the corner.

The guard and the driver were pushing white bins overflowing with unclean clothing and linen. The squeaking was emanating from the tiny black wheels on the laundry bins. They passed outside, and the metal door eased almost shut.

Blade turned to the left and sprinted down the hallway to the yellow door. The door opened onto a flight of stairs. He hesitated, glancing down.

The stairs descended several levels below ground, as well as climbing to the stories above. Which way to go? The guard and the driver would be going up. So he went down, taking two steps at a stride, constantly surveying the levels below for any hint of activity. He halted on the first landing, pondering. If the Russians did hold the Vikings in Penza Hall, on which floor would the Vikings most likely be detained? Surely not on one of the upper floors, where windows were a tempting escape route.

Underground would be best.

Move! his mind shrieked.

Blade hastened below. It was close to dawn, and the corridors would probably be crammed with workers once the day shift arrived. Finding the holding cells quickly was imperative. He decided to begin at the bottom and work his way up. The magnitude of his task bothered him. Penza Hall was enormous. He couldn’t possibly cover all of it before daylight. He reached the next landing, kept moving.

Far above him a door scraped open.

Someone else was using the stairs!

Blade increased his pace. Three steps at a leap, he hurried to the lowest level.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs above, echoing hollowly in the confines of the stairwell.

Blade reached the bottom of the stairwell and found two yellow doors.

He tried one knob, and was gratified when it twisted and the door jerked wide. Gratified until he saw what awaited him.

A Russian soldier.