“We’re not leavin’ him lying here like this.”
“You’re right,” Geronimo said. “We’ll take him back with us.”
Hickok glanced up. “What are you talkin’ about? We’re not going back to the Home yet. We’ve got to rescue Blade.”
“We’re in no shape to rescue Blade. Look at yourself,” Geronimo declared, and pointed at the gunfighter’s thigh.
Hickok looked at his leg and grimaced. A pool of blood had formed under him, and the hole in his thigh was large enough to accommodate two of his fingers. “I’ll bandage this scratch and we’ll head out.”
“We’re returning to the Home.”
“Like hell we are.”
Geronimo leaned down and locked his eyes on his best friend. “I don’t want to go back either, but we don’t have any choice, Nathan. We’ve lost Marcus. I’m groggy and ready to keel over. And you’re bleeding to death.
The Healers can take care of us if we return to the Home, but if we try to press on now, in the condition we’re in, we’ll be committing suicide. We’ll never reach Boston.” He paused. “You can see I’m right, can’t you?”
“But Blade—”
“Blade has been their prisoner for over a week. Another few days won’t make a difference if he’s still alive. We need to have our injuries tended to and select another Warrior to accompany us,” Geronimo said, and sighed.
“Do you think I want to go back? Do you think I like the idea of leaving Blade in their hands? You know me better than that.”
Hickok began to object, then changed his mind. He gazed at the blood coating Marcus, the blood seeping down Geronimo’s brow, and the blood pumping from his thigh, and his shoulders slumped in agonized resignation. “Damn,” he said bitterly.
“We go back?”
“We go back,” Hickok stated reluctantly. “Until we heal up. Blade’s on his own. I just hope the Big Guy can escape without our help.”
Chapter Nineteen
The guard was as easy as pie.
Blade came over the fence at the northwest corner of Gorbachev Air Force Base, scaling the eight-foot-high chain-link barrier effortlessly. The three strands of barbed wire at the top gave him momentary pause, but all he had to do was unsling one of the AK-47’s, the one over his left arm, and use the weapon to press down on the strands until they were nearly level with the chain-link portion, then ease his legs over, balancing on his steely arms. A short drop to the ground and he was inside the base, crouched in the inky shadows.
He breathed the cool night air and gazed upward at the stars, thinking of the cab driver he had left loosely bound in the front seat of the taxi, which was parked in a stand of trees situated less than 70 yards to the north of the military post. Harold would eventually free himself and radio for assistance, but the cab driver wouldn’t be able to drive off because Blade had flattened all four tires.
Heavy boot steps sounded off to the south.
Blade froze and slowly scanned his immediate vicinity. He appeared to be at the corner of a runway. Tarmacadam covered the ground. Lamposts were positioned along the fence every 40 feet or so, affording a dim illumination. But, as the Warrior had noted on his wary approach to the fence, the lamps failed to adequately penetrate to the very corner.
A Russian soldier, a perimeter guard, materialized under the nearest lampost to the south, strolling along the fence and humming contentedly.
Over his right shoulder hung an AK-47.
Blade lowered himself to the tarmacadam and waited. If he was lucky the guard wouldn’t look down. He’d hoped to reduce the probability of encountering sentries by entering the base after one A.M. So much for his bright idea.
The guard clasped his hands behind his back and stared off in the distance at the lights of a residential neighborhood.
The Warrior released the stock of the AK-47 and eased his right hand to the Bowie on his right hip. He had one important factor working in his favor. The Soviets had controlled Boston for over a century, and not once during that period did they have to contend with an organized rebellion.
They had eradicated the last of the lingering bands of freedom fighters in Massachusetts 94 years ago, according to the information Harold had imparted. And since no one had attacked a Russian facility in so long, the Soviet troops were bound to be complacent, bound to be less alert than they would be in a war zone. At least, that’s what Blade hoped.
Still humming, the sentry drew ever nearer to the corner. He came within six feet and stopped, turning to gaze over the post. Not far off, to the southwest, were two hangars and a barracks. The first inkling he had that something was wrong, dreadfully wrong, came when a razor point gouged him in the throat and an iron vise clamped on his mouth.
“One word, one twitch, and you’re dead.”
Petrified, the guard stood stock still, scarcely able to credit his senses.
“I’m going to let go of your mouth. If you try to shout, I’ll slit your throat.”
The soldier flinched as the knife or bayonet or whatever it was gouged even deeper into his neck. He exhaled when the hand moved from over his mouth.
“Do you see this?” the man standing directly behind the guard asked.
The sentry’s eyes widened in astonishment when the pressure on his throat was relieved and the biggest knife he’d ever seen, maybe the biggest knife in the entire world, was held right in front of his eyes. Even in the dark he could tell the blade must be 14 inches in length. He envisioned the knife sinking into his body and he gulped in fear.
“Do you know what I’ll do with this if you don’t cooperate?”
“Yes,” the guard whispered.
“Where is the HGP Unit?”
The soldier licked his lips and nodded to the southwest. “They’re housed in the barracks building next to those two hangers.”
“What’s in the hangars?”
“The helicopters they use. Eight of them, I think.”
“The long-range jobs?”
“There are only two of the modified kind. The others are basic choppers.”
“What about the rest of the base personnel and aircraft?”
“All farther south. The HGP Unit has that area all to itself, but most of the base facilities, the barracks where the Air Force personnel are housed, the homes for the married ones and their dependents, the majority of the hangars, and all the rest are located near Airport Road and Hartwell Road, at the south end of the base.”
“You’ve been a great help.”
The sentry tensed in anticipation of the knife tearing into him. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked anxiously.
“I want you to relay a message for me,” said the man to his rear.
“A message?”
“Yeah. Tell General Malenkov that Blade sends his regards.”
“General Malenkov? The General Malenkov?”
“You’ve got it.”
Stunned, the guard opened his mouth to voice another question, but a tremendous blow to the back of his head drove him to his knees. The fence and the stars, the whole universe, spun before his eyes. A second blow, delivered on the exact same spot as the first, caused the universe and his consciousness to be devoured by a black hole.
“Thanks for everything,” Blade said softly to the figure at his feet. He sheathed the right Bowie and stared at the two hangars and the barracks several hundred yards away, their outlines silhouetted by periodic floodlights. The intelligence the sentry had imparted dovetailed with the layout of the base. Most of the base facilities were indeed situated on the south side, as Blade had observed for himself earlier as Harold drove him around the boundary on the roads that came closest to the fence. And it fit that the HGP Unit would be housed in their own barracks, nearer the northern end of the post, away from the regular Air Force troops.