“That’s not a reason. Governor Melnick has gone out of his way to supply all our needs while we’re here,” Blade pointed out. “And he said if there was anything we wanted, anything at all, just say the word and it’s ours.” He paused. “I want you as our liaison. If your superiors want to know why, tell them I’m impressed by your professional behavior.”
“You are?”
“Now why don’t you go check in?” Blade advised. “We’ll be in the lobby if you need us.”
“Me? Liaison?” Di Nofrio climbed from the jeep, shaking his head in bewilderment. “I’ll be right back,” he promised and hurried off.
“Okay, pard. Clue me in,” Hickok stated. “What’s the real reason you want this tenderfoot as our liaison?”
“I’d relish learning your motive myself,” Plato added.
“Di Nofrio is housebroken,” Blade said.
Hickok chuckled.
Plato glanced from one Warrior to the other. “Would you elucidate?”
“What was the first thing your wife, Nadine did with that puppy President Toland gave her last year for her birthday?” Blade asked.
Plato reflected for a moment. A grin creased his features. “She disciplined the canine whenever it urinated or attempted to defecate in our cabin.”
“She taught it to behave,” Blade said. “The dog is under her control, under her thumb so to speak. Well, Captain Di Nofrio is under our thumb.
He won’t give us any grief if we decide to deviate from the official program, and we might need the latitude if worse comes to worst.” He smiled. “Besides, I like him. He reminds me of Nadine’s puppy.”
Plato stared at the hotel entrance. “Let’s venture inside. I’m eager to visit with the other delegates.”
Blade stepped from the jeep, admiring the structure. Because the government regularly used the hotel, the building was maintained in superb condition. The polished glass doors glistened in the sunlight.
Hickok stretched after clambering from the vehicle. “I hope they’ve got some grub in there. I’m starved.”
Plato joined them, carrying his flannel shirt and corduroy pants bundled under his left arm. “Shall we?” He motioned toward the glass doors.
Blade walked up to the doors, nodded at a pair of guards standing at attention, and opened the right-hand door for Plato.
The Family Leader squared his sloping shoulders and marched inside.
Hickok halted, indicating Blade should enter next. “You’re the chief Warrior. Protocol and all that.”
Blade laughed, followed Plato. “What do you know about protocol?” he queried over his left shoulder.
“Enough to know I should wear my knee-high moccasins when dealin’ with political types,” Hickok answered. “Do you recollect our history lessons in the Family school? Back in the old days, before the Big Blast, the politicians were either feedin’ the folks a load of bull or stealin’ them blind.”
“The Freedom Federation leaders aren’t stealing their people blind,” Blade remarked, “and they don’t feed anyone a load of bull.”
“Oh yeah?” Hickok rejoined. “Then why is it, every time I attend one of these summit shindigs and listen to all those long-winded speeches, I get a mite soggy from my knees down to my feet?”
“If you’d use a toilet or a tree you wouldn’t have that problem,” Blade quipped.
The hotel lobby was ornately furnished, with plush blue carpet, mahogany furniture, freshly painted walls, and potted plants in profusion.
Packed from wall to wall with prominent and minor bureaucrats, military types, assorted gofers, and members of the hotel staff, the lobby was filled with the hubbub of dozens and dozens of intermingled voices.
Plato stopped, surveying the scene.
Blade stood alongside Plato’s right arm, searching for the other members of the Freedom Federation. They were easy to spot, their attire causing them to stand out like the proverbial sore thumb.
Twenty feet off to the right were the representatives of the Cavalry, the horsemen of the northern Plains, a protective association controlling the former state of South Dakota, dedicated to defending the ranchers, farmers, Indians, townspeople, and other occupants of their territory. All three Cavalrymen were dressed in their usual garb: buckskins. Their leader, Kilrane, was a handsome man with blue eyes and streaks of gray in his brown hair. He was a big man, and he wore a Mitchell Single Action revolver on his right hip. With him were his two closest associates, Boone and Hamlin. Boone was tall and lean, over six feet, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His brown hair was worn shoulder-length. Buckled around his waist were a matching pair of 44 Magnum Hombre single-action revolvers. Hamlin was a small man with a scruffy beard and a wispy moustache. A Winchester was slung over his back.
Conversing with the Cavalrymen were the emissaries from the Clan.
Hundreds of refugees from the Twin Cities had settled in a town called Halma, located six miles from the Family’s compound, and named themselves the Clan in imitation of the Family. Zahner was their leader, a man of average height with sharp blue eyes, fine brown hair, and a distinctive cleft in the middle of his upper lip. He was wearing a brown shirt and brown trousers. To his right was one of his two lieutenants, a huge black man known as Bear. A curly Afro served to enhance Bear’s impressive stature. He preferred to wear a fatigue jacket and fatigue pants. To Bear’s right was Zahner’s second lieutenant, a bearded man dressed all in black. Brother Timothy was the spiritual standard-bearer for the Clan.
Blade stared straight ahead. The three envoys from the Flathead Indians were talking to several bureaucrats. Conspicuous by her youth and her stately bearing, seventeen-year-old Star was the head of her tribe. Her father, the former Chief, had perished in battle. Largely because of her unflagging efforts to inspire and reunite her tribe after a military setback, she was later chosen to lead them. Her lovely black hair hung to her waist, partially covering her beautiful brown leather dress adorned with intricate bead work. Attending her were her two counselors. Both were wearing their finest buckskins and robes. Red Cloud was the older of the counselors, in his forties, with a wisdom belying his years. Lone Bear was in his twenties, and Blade noticed his eyes seldom strayed from Star.
Seated by themselves in the rear of the lobby, aloof from the proceedings, were the three Moles, the representatives from the subterranean city called the Mound located in northern Minnesota. Their leader, Wolfe, ruled them with an iron hand. While not a despot, Wolfe came the closest of all the Freedom Federation leaders to being a true tyrant. He was exceptionally tall and abnormally thin, with an unruly mane of red hair crowning his haughty countenance and complementing his intense blue eyes. The color purple was his favorite, and he wore a purple shirt and purple slacks. He was flanked by two flunkies.
“I’d like to get their attention,” Plato absently commented.
Hickok cupped his hands around his mouth and stepped forward.
“Quiet!” he bellowed. “An hombre can’t hear himself think with all you yahoos yackin’ like a bunch of ninnies!”
Every eye in the lobby focused on the emissaries from the Family.
“You wanted their attention, you’ve got it,” Hickok said to Plato.
There were cries of greeting from some of the Freedom Federation members, and the Cavalry, Flathead, and Clan representatives started forward.
Plato held up his right hand, grimly surveying the crowd, bringing all motion to a standstill. “My friends, it is a great pleasure to see all of you once again! But I’m afraid our reunion must be tempered by the tragedy at the airport.”
Several of the Federation members exchanged confused glances.
Plato’s forehead creased. “Weren’t you informed?”
Zahner, the head of the Clan, spoke for the rest. “Informed about what?”