“Nothing.”
“You can’t fool me. I know something is bothering you.”
“Maybe I’m ticked off because no one seems to think I know what I’m doing,” Blade stated.
“Who said that? I’ll personally shoot their toes off.”
“You did.”
Hickok almost tripped over his own feet. “I did? I never said no such thing.”
“Neither of you believe Achilles would make a competent Warrior,” Blade pointed out.
“So?”
“So I do. And by disagreeing, you’re implying that I don’t know what I’m doing.”
The gunman and Geronimo exchanged glances.
“You’re blowin’ this thing out of all proportion. Just because we disagree with you doesn’t mean we think you’re a cow chip.”
“It’s the same thing, Nathan.”
“It is not,” Hickok responded defensively.
“Perhaps the real reason you’re upset is because everyone feels the same way we do,” Geronimo noted. “Maybe you’re just taking your frustration out on us.”
“Yeah. Not nice,” Hickok declared.
Blade looked at them. “Haven’t I done a fair job as the top Warrior?”
“You’re the best Warrior the Family has had in its entire history,” Geronimo answered.
“He can’t draw a six-shooter worth spit,” Hickok commented.
“Well, if I’m halfway proficient, then why is everyone doubting my judgment when I say that Achilles will make a damn good Warrior?” Blade snapped.
“It’s not that we have anything against you,” Hickok said. “It’s just that Achilles rubs practically everyone the wrong way.”
“Yeah,” Geronimo agreed. “He’s too…” he began, then abruptly stopped and cocked his head.
“What is it, pard?” Hickok inquired.
Geronimo gazed to the west. “Don’t you hear it?”
An instant later everyone in the compound heard the sound, a rumble resembling distant thunder. The rumble grew in volume dramatically, and in seconds became a deafening roar as a gleaming, silvery jet streaked over the Home, flashing past almost at treetop level, seeming to shake the very ground with the din from its passage. Banking to the north, the jet arced high into the sky and began to execute a wide loop.
“It’s the Hurricane,” Geronimo said absently.
“What the blazes is it doing here now?” Hickok asked. “I thought the regular courier run wasn’t until the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s the schedule,” Blade said, watching the technological marvel swing toward the Home and thinking of all the times he had ridden in the aircraft.
The Hurricane belonged to the Free State of California, an ally of the Family’s. Together they were but two of the seven factions comprising the Freedom Federation, an alliance formed when the leaders of the seven groups had signed a mutual self-defense treaty, resulting in a loose confederation of disparate members. California was one of the few states to retain its administrative integrity after the war, and due to the state’s abundant resources had been able to preserve a level of culture similar to the prewar society.
Other members of the Federation included the Flathead Indians, who now controlled the former state of Montana, and the Cavalry, superb horsemen who ruled the Dakota Territory. There were also the Moles, inhabitants of an underground city located in north-central Minnesota, and a group known as the Clan. Refugees from the Twin Cities, the Clan had intentionally resettled in the small town of Halma in northwestern Minnesota, not far from the Home, so they could be close to the Family.
The seventh Federation member was the Civilized Zone, an area embracing the former states of Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Oklahoma and part of Arizona and the northern half of Texas. The U.S. government had evacuated thousands of its citizens into the region during the war, and later, when the government collapsed, a dictator had seized power and renamed his dominion. Six years ago a descendant of the dictator had attempted to reclaim America as his own and been defeated, killed by Blade.
“I wonder why the Hurricane is here early,” Geronimo said.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Blade responded, his lips compressing.
A monthly courier service had been established, using the jets to carry correspondence and passengers from one Federation faction to the next.
Because of the vast distances between them, the only means the Federation members had of keeping in regular contact was through the Hurricanes. The pilots normally stuck to their assigned schedules like clockwork, and whenever they deviated from their route there had to be an excellent reason.
It usually meant trouble.
Hickok glanced at the giant. “Maybe they need you to take the Force on a mission.
“I hope not,” Blade said. “I’m not slated to return to California for another week and a half.”
The Freedom Force—or simply the Force, as most referred to the unit—was an elite tactical team formed by the Federation leaders to deal with any and all threats to Federation security. Composed of a volunteer from each faction, the Force could be dispatched on a moment’s notice to any point on the continent. Blade had agreed to serve as the head of the Force, and he alternated his time between the Home and the Force headquarters near Los Angeles. Recently he had adjusted his schedule so that he spent two weeks out of each month at the Home and two in L.A.
Eventually he hoped to reduce his Force workload to where he would only need to stay a week in California every month. He intensely disliked being away from his wife and son, and now, as he saw the Hurricane dropping in altitude, coming in for a landing, he clenched his brawny fists and scowled.
This could only mean one thing.
He was about to put his life on the line again.
CHAPTER THREE
The Hurricanes possessed vertical-takeoff-or-landing capability, enabling them to ascend or descend much like a helicopter. Instead of the traditional lengthy runway required by most planes, they needed only 80 square feet of space from which to take off or land. As the pilot neared the west side of the Home, he put the aircraft into the VTOL mode and hovered over the field bordering the brick wall. As a security precaution, the Family kept the ground cleared for 150 yards in all directions from the compound.
An arrival of a Hurricane was always a fascinating event for the Family members. They flocked to the ramparts or streamed across the drawbridge situated in the center of the west wall, eager for a glimpse of the mighty jet, the only functional aircraft the majority of them had ever seen.
Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo joined the crowd moving across the drawbridge, with the giant in the lead.
“Hey, pard,” Hickok said. “If the Federation bigwigs have another assignment for you, why don’t you take us along instead of flyin’ all the way back to Los Angeles? Geronimo and I can use the exercise.”
“Speak for yourself, ding-a-ling,” Geronimo retorted. “I’m not addicted to action like you are.”
“Who says?”
“Face facts. You can’t get by without your daily adrenaline rush.”
The gunman snorted. “That’s not true and you know it.”
“Well, excuse me. Your weekly adrenaline rush, then,” Geronimo amended, grinning.
“I hope there isn’t another assignment,” Blade reiterated.
“If there is, you can always take Achilles.” Geronimo joked.
The idle suggestion prompted the giant to blink a few times, then smile.
He threaded his way through the gathering throng, taking long strides, repeatedly saying, “Excuse me.”
Its engines whining, the Hurricane slowly lowered to the turf 40 yards from the drawbridge, its nose pointed at .the Home.