Blade leaned over the steering wheel and spotted the small surface-to-air missile, the Stinger, in flight, arching upward into the bright blue sky on the trail of the jet. He threw his door open and jumped to the ground for a better view, followed by the others.
The pilot of the jet apparently knew the Stinger was after him. The jet was climbing as rapidly as the pilot could manage, gaining distance on the pursuing missile.
“The Stinger only has a ten-mile range,” Geronimo noted anxiously. “If the jet can outrun it…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Blade was marveling at the supreme skill the pilot was displaying in his endeavor to avoid the missile.
The jet abruptly banked westward and the Stinger closed in and would have made contact with its target, but at the last possible instant the pilot rolled the jet and the missile passed under the aircraft. The pilot dived in a shrieking whine of the craft’s engines, nosing the jet as steeply as feasible.
What was the pilot up to now?
The Stinger had turned and was soaring after the jet.
With consummate expertise, the pilot pulled the jet out of the dive just when it seemed the aircraft would crash into the ground.
The Stinger, close behind the jet, was slower to respond. Its sensors registered the jet arcing up and away and the guidance system compensated, the missile clearing a stand of pine trees with only feet to spare.
At full throttle, the pilot was fleeing in a vertical ascent. The Stinger was losing ground rapidly.
“He’s doing it!” Geronimo said in alarm.
Blade glanced at the SEAL, wondering how they would escape if the jet returned to finish the job it had started. There was an unusual sound high up in the sky and he gazed up at the dogfight.
The jet was in serious trouble; it was making a coughing noise and depositing a trail of black smoke. It seemed to stall completely and hang in the air for several seconds.
The Stinger was eating up the space between them.
“Look!” Bertha cried.
The canopy of the jet suddenly fell away from the aircraft, and they could see a diminutive figure scrambling from the cockpit.
“Go!” Zahner yelled. “Get the hell out of there!”
Blade found himself doing the same thing, mentally rooting for the pilot to evade his impending fate. The man—or was it a woman?—had put up such a stupendous struggle, he or she deserved to live.
The Stinger, however, being artificial in construction and intelligence, was immune to the emotional pangs of compassion or a salute to bravery; it functioned according to a singular, preprogrammed purpose, and it fulfilled that purpose now.
The tiny form of the pilot was in the act of leaping clear of the jet when the Stinger hit. The blast of the impact utterly destroyed the aircraft in a sparkling, fiery cloud of annihilation.
“Back in the SEAL,” Blade immediately instructed them. He waited until they were inside, watching the wreckage of the jet plummet to the ground perhaps four miles to the west.
“Funny they only sent one jet,” Hickok remarked as Blade climbed behind the wheel.
“Maybe not so funny,” Blade said disagreeing, starting the SEAL and backing from the gully. He headed for the convoy. “I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’ve come to the conclusion that Samuel isn’t as powerful as we give him credit for.”
“What makes you say that?” Geronimo asked.
“Think about it,” Blade said. “Why have they waited one hundred years after World War Three to begin reconquering the United States? Why didn’t they do it five years after the Big Blast instead? Or ten years? Or twenty-five? There’s only one logical reason: they weren’t strong enough.”
“They must think they’re strong enough now,” Hickok noted.
“Oh, sure,” Blade conceded, “Samuel intends to take over the entire country in the coming years, but look at how he’s doing it. A piece at a time. Bit by bit. One group here and another group there. Meanwhile, what does he do? He keeps an eye on anyone living outside the Civilized Zone, but he doesn’t do anything to them unless he decides they’re a threat, like our Family. Even now, when Samuel is trying to prevent us from returning to the Home, what does he do? He sends a jet. One jet. Not two. Not ten. Just one. Why doesn’t he send more? If stopping us is so important to him, why didn’t he send more jets? The answer is obvious.
He only had one to spare. Even the single jet he sent wasn’t in top condition or that pilot would have avoided our missile. It wasn’t the pilot’s fault he failed; the jet itself was to blame. It looked to me like the jet conked out on him.” Blade paused. “No, I don’t believe that the Civilized Zone is all powerful. Samuel the Second and the Doktor can be defeated.
All we have to do is find their Achilles heel. When we get to the Home I’m going to have a long talk with Plato and propose that we carry the fight to them instead of waiting for them to come after us.”
“Sounds great to me,” Hickok said with enthusiasm. “I’ve always said the best defense is a good offense.”
“Haven’t I heard that line somewhere before?” Geronimo asked, grinning.
The SEAL was approaching the convoy. The truck struck by the jet was still ablaze. The refugees had gathered around the troop transports and were ministering to the injured. Joshua ran up to the SEAL as Blade braked and climbed down.
“Report,” Blade told him.
“My initial tally,” Joshua began sadly, “indicates twenty-nine dead and fourteen wounded.”
“So many!” Zahner stated, joining them.
“Seven are in critical condition,” Joshua revealed. “I don’t think they’ll reach the Home.”
“Maybe we should stay put and tend ’em,” Bertha proposed.
Blade became aware that all eyes were on him, awaiting his decision.
He walked to the nearest troop transport and clambered onto the cab.
“Quiet down!” he yelled, waving his arms over his head to attract their attention. “You’ve all just seen how vulnerable we are here. So long as we’re tied to these trucks, whether on the highway or parked on the side, they can hit us whenever they want and wherever they want. They have the advantage. Well, I don’t intend to allow this to happen again! So here’s what we are going to do! Everyone will be loaded into the troop transports, even the injured, and we’re going to take off. If you are hungry, eat now.
I’d advise you to go to the bathroom now. Because we are not stopping again until we reach the Home! That’s right! Unless there is a dire emergency, we’ll drive until we reach our destination! No stopping! We’ll drive all night if we need to, but I can promise you, come morning, we will be at the Home! Within a few days, we’ll have you relocated in the town of your choice, in your new home. Are you with me?”
Zahner led the throng in a chant of “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Okay! Let’s get moving!” Blade leaped to the ground.
Hickok was chuckling.
“What’s so funny?” Blade inquired.
“Oh,” Hickok said, grinning, “I was just thinking about how naturally talented a leader you are.”
“Don’t start,” Blade warned him.
“I know how you feel about leading the Family,” Hickok commented.
“You’ve told us dozens of times you don’t want the responsibility, and I’m with you one hundred percent.”
“You are?”
“Of course, pard. Who needs our Family? They’re small potatoes! If we take on the Civilized Zone and whip Sammy’s butt, I say you should run for President!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
There were five of them, five people and as many suitcases piled into the green military jeep traveling east on a deserted stretch of Highway 11