“I wish I knew,” Blade stated. “I’m responsible for the lives of all these people, and I don’t mind telling you that this waiting is making me a bit antsy.”
“We’ve got company,” Geronimo mentioned.
Zahner and Bertha were strolling toward them. Bertha had opted to ride with Zahner.
“How much longer will we stay here?” Zahner inquired as the duo reached the Warriors.
“Until everyone has eaten and gone to the bathroom,” Blade revealed. “I intend to drive as far as we can tonight. The sooner we reach our Home, the safer I’ll feel.”
Bertha leaned against the SEAL and playfully winked at Hickok. The gunman pretended he hadn’t seen it, so she idly watched some white, fluffy clouds float by overhead.
“Any ideas why the Army hasn’t tried to stop us yet?” Zahner questioned them.
“We were just talking about that,” Blade replied. “Your guess is as good as ours.”
“Hey!” Bertha interrupted, pointing skyward. “Look at that!”
They all peered in the direction she was indicating and saw a bright pinpoint of light high in the sky.
“I learned about them when I was in Montana,” Blade detailed. “They’re called satellites and the Civilized Zone utilizes them to spy on other communities and towns. There are a few still up there, orbiting the planet, left over from before the Big Blast. That’s what that thing is. A satellite.”
“Don’t you remember?” Geronimo reminded them.
“We saw one before, on our first run to the Twin Cities. I even heard it.”
Zahner chuckled. “You can’t hear a satellite.”
“What? How do you know?” Blade demanded.
“I don’t know a lot about them,” Zahner readily admitted, “but I can remember talking with my dad, years and years ago, about the technology they had before World War Three. He mentioned satellites. Said they circle the earth way up there. Way, way up there. No way could you hear one.”
Geronimo, perplexed, was watching the spot of light in the blue sky. It was growing larger. “But I can hear that one,” he said disputing Zahner.
“So can I,” Hickok attested.
“I can too,” Zahner confirmed. “Funny, though. I know my dad told me you can’t hear a satellite with the human ear.”
Blade was staring at the growing sphere of light. Was Zahner correct?
Was it impossible to hear satellites? Why, he chided himself, hadn’t he bothered to research satellites in the Family Library after he had returned from Montana?
The light abruptly arced downward, accompanied by a raucous screeching.
At that instant, Blade abruptly recalled a book in the Library dealing with the history of aviation. One photograph, in particular, stood out vividly in his mind, and he knew, then, what it was. He knew it wasn’t a satellite, it wasn’t a harmless contrivance used for high altitude reconnaissance. It was something different, something deadly, a relic from the past sent to deliver a message of destruction from Samuel the Second.
It was a jet.
Specifically, a jet fighter.
The jet streaked in low over Floyd Lake, zooming over the convoy vehicles parked near the southwestern shore. It rolled and banked to the west.
“What the blazes is that thing?” Hickok shouted.
“A jet!” Blade replied, glancing along the shore. With a start he realized how vulnerable they were; the troop transports, jeep, and the SEAL were sitting ducks, right out in the open, and the majority of the people were standing near the lake or, in the case of many of the children and a few of the adults, actually in Floyd Lake, swimming and splashing. Right at the moment, though, everybody was staring at the jet in wonder.
“Here it comes again!” Geronimo yelled.
“Get out of the water!” Blade cried. “Take cover!”
There wasn’t enough time.
The jet swooped down out of the western sky, its guns blazing. Dozens of the refugees were mowed down where they stood. In a twinkling, the jet was gone again, banking for another strafing run.
Screaming in stark panic, the refugees were streaming toward a wooden section close to the lake.
“We’ve got to get the trucks out of here!” Geronimo said.
“Too late!” Zahner declared, pointing.
They all dove for the dirt as the jet angled in. This time the pilot zeroed in on the troop transports, the jet’s guns booming, and as the jet flashed off to the right one of the trucks exploded, showering debris in every direction. Fortunately, none of the other vehicles were close enough to be caught in the blast.
“Follow me!” Blade commanded, and sprinted to the SEAL. He climbed inside, in the driver’s seat, and studied the four toggle switches in the center of the dashboard, the armament switches.
Hickok, Geronimo, Zahner, and Bertha piled in after Blade, with Hickok taking the other bucket seat and Geronimo, Zahner, and Bertha filling the back seat.
“What do you have in mind, pard?” Hickok queried.
Before Blade could respond, the jet was on them again. This time the pilot was aiming at the SEAL, and the five inside could feel the vehicle shake from the onslaught of the jet’s guns. The SEAL’s impervious plastic body, unlike the troop transports, was able to withstand the blistering attack.
Blade was trying to recall everything he could about the second of the four toggle switches, the one controlling the surface-to-air missile. The missile was mounted in the roof above the driver’s seat. If he activated the switch, a panel in the roof would slide aside and the surface-to-air missile, a heat-seeking Stinger, would be launched. The Stinger, so said the instructions, had an effective range of ten miles.
“It’s comin’ again!” Bertha declared.
Blade rested his right hand on the toggle switch. Knowing the details of the Operations Manual was well and good, but the fact still remained that they had never tested the weapon and they had no idea if it would work as designed.
“Go for it!” Hickok urged.
Blade looked out his window and saw the jet bearing down from the west as before, coming out of the sun. Was the jet armed with missiles or rockets, as well as machine guns? If so, the SEAL would not survive a direct hit. There might be time to take cover! He started the engine and gunned it, the SEAL lurching forward as the jet passed overhead. The movement of the SEAL evidently disconcerted the pilot of the aircraft, because the devastating fire failed to materialize.
“Geronimo, keep your eyes on the jet,” Blade ordered. “Cue me when it’s about a mile off.”
“Will do.”
Blade drove the SEAL due north, putting distance between the SEAL and the remainder of the convoy, seeking a suitable spot where they could take cover.
“It’s made a wide turn,” Geronimo reported.
Blade saw a gully to his left, a wide one at the top of a rise, and he drove toward it.
“He’s coming in fast,” Geronimo announced, “about five miles out.”
Blade had the pedal to the metal.
“Four miles.”
The SEAL’s colossal tires churned up the small rise.
“Three miles.”
Blade wheeled the SEAL into the gully and slammed on the brakes.
“Two miles.”
Blade gripped the toggle switch in his right hand.
“One mile,” Geronimo stated.
“Now!” Hickok shouted.
Blade flicked the toggle switch, even as the jet roared overhead, not more than fifty feet above the SEAL. There was a tremendous explosion as something struck the gully above the SEAL. A shower of dirt and stones descended on the vehicle as a cloud of dust choked the air.
So!
The jet did carry more than machine guns!
But what about the surface-to-air missile?
“Nothing happened,” Geronimo said.
That was when the entire SEAL bucked backwards and there was a loud retort from the roof.