“I know,” General Melnick agreed. “But flying all of you to California was the least I could do after President Toland accepted my offer to hold the summit here. Once the treaty is signed, I intend to propose using our two VTOL’s on a regular basis to shuttle passengers, convey communiques, and generally serve as a courier service for the Freedom Federation. What do you think of the idea?”
“It’s highly commendable and quite generous of you,” Plato replied.
“Currently, our messages can take weeks to reach other Federation members because of the distances involved. The last of the Civilized Zone’s jets was destroyed five years ago, and none of the other Federation members possess aircraft.” He gazed around the airport. “How have you managed to keep so many of your craft airworthy?”
“By assigning them our highest priority,” Governor Melnick divulged.
“California has abundant natural resources, but our supply isn’t unlimited. The Free State government rationed fuel during the war, and the rationing wasn’t lifted until about two decades later. We produce sufficient fuel to meet our needs, but every gallon is strictly accounted for.
Utilizing aircraft is the only sensible means of conducting government, military, and commercial business. You have to remember California is eight hundred miles in length. So we’ve deliberately concentrated on maintaining our aircraft. We still use cars and jeeps and trucks, but not on extended trips unless there’s no other alternative.”
“Your government made a wise decision,” Plato remarked.
Hickok abruptly made a show of clearing his throat. “Ain’t you honchos forgettin’ your manners?”
“How rude of me,” Governor Melnick said, offering his hand. “You must be Hickok.” He looked at the gunman’s Pythons as they shook hands. “I’ve heard about your exploits.”
Hickok grinned. “I reckon I am a mite famous.”
“And modest too,” Blade chimed in. He shook hands with the governor.
“I’m Blade.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Governor Melnick said. “I know about you too. You’re the head of the Warriors, and you’re responsible for safeguarding the Family’s compound.”
“Among other duties,” Blade stated, thinking of his beloved wife, Jenny, and his young son, Gabriel, both two thousand miles away at the Home, the Family’s survivalist compound located near Lake Bronson State Park in northern Minnesota.
Governor Melnick nodded toward the VTOL. “I would have liked to meet more of your Family, but the VTOL’s can only carry a maximum of five passengers.”
“Then why’d you bring just us three?” Hickok asked.
“Because although we’ve used our VTOL’s to transport five passengers on short hauls, and although we’ve added extra fuel tanks for long-range flights, we’ve never actually flown them beyond California’s borders,” Governor Melnick disclosed. “We’ve simply had nowhere to go. Until we were contacted by your Federation, we assumed, based on past experience, that we’d receive a hostile reception anywhere we landed. In addition, we couldn’t be certain of obtaining fuel if, by some chance, the craft ran low.
So to play it safe we’ve stayed within our borders. Until now. These flights to pick up the Federation leaders are test runs. Theoretically, one of our VTOL’s could fly five people from your Home to L.A., but I didn’t want to run the risk of endangering your lives if the aircraft became low on fuel.
With only three passengers, though, I knew our VTOL could easily make the trip. Which is why only three representatives from each Federation member are being flown to the summit meeting.”
“A prudent judgment,” Plato commented.
Governor Melnick turned toward the blonde. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Sharon.”
Sharon Melnick stepped forward, smiling, about to shake Plato’s hand, when her forehead suddenly exploded outward, spraying blood and chunks of ragged flesh and grisly gore in a wide arc. Her body stiffened and she toppled forward.
“Sharon!” Governor Melnick cried, catching her in his arms.
The two Warriors were already in motion. Hickok crouched, his hands twin blurs as the Pythons cleared leather. Blade gripped Plato’s shoulders and pulled the Family Leader to the tarmac.
General Owens moved to assist Governor Melnick, placing himself between the governor and the terminal as he tried to support Sharon Melnick. The right side of the general’s face erupted in a crimson shower and he fell backwards.
The crowd near the terminal was shouting and screaming. A dozen men in green uniforms were sprinting toward the VTOL.
“Get down!” Hickok yelled, springing to the governor’s side and rudely hauling Melnick to the ground. The gunman scanned the crowd and the terminal, seeking the sniper. “Where the blazes is the varmint?”
Blade, covering Plato with his own body, spotted a solitary figure on the roof of the terminal. “Hickok! The roof!”
Hickok glanced up and was off like a shot, dodging and weaving to present a difficult target. He could see the sniper was wearing a military uniform and holding a weapon, but he couldn’t distinguish the type of weapon. The thing didn’t look like a gun, but he couldn’t be sure. He was still 30 yards from the terminal when he saw the sniper take aim, and he knew Melnick and Plato were the likely quarry. The gunfighter reacted instinctively, firing on the run, each Python booming, going for the chest because the head was partly obscured.
Incredibly, the gunman apparently missed a vital organ. The sniper staggered backwards several paces, shaking his head vigorously, and then moved back to the rim of the roof. He hefted his weapon, as if indecisive about making another attempt.
Hickok poured on the speed.
The sniper dropped from sight.
Hickok reached the line of soldiers running toward the VTOL. Three of them had stopped and were staring at the terminal. “Follow me!” the gunman shouted. He heard them pounding after him.
The sniper had not reappeared.
Hickok didn’t slacken his pace as he approached the crowd. “Move!” he bellowed, waving the Colts, and the welcoming committee immediately parted, men and women frantically darting to the right and the left. He found a pair of glass doors in his path, and he used the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to snatch at the metal handle on the left-hand door, wrenching the door open and throwing himself to the left and squatting.
The sniper was on the far side of the sparsely crowded modernistic terminal, standing in front of another set of glass doors, his weapon to his shoulder.
One of the three soldiers was coming through the entrance.
Hickok looked to his right, his mouth wide to voice a warning.
The soldier was struck in the chest, the impact flinging him backwards into the two troopers behind him.
The sniper spun and raced through the exit on the far side.
Fuming, Hickok was up and running across the terminal, furious at himself for having missed and blaming his failure for the death of the soldier. As he sped in pursuit of the sniper, he speculated on the type of weapon the assassin was using. He hadn’t seen a flash or heard a shot. The mangy coyote could be employing a rifle fitted with a silencer, but the contours of the weapon did not resemble those of a rifle. So what the blazes was the sniper using?
Hickok barreled through the glass doors on the opposite side of the terminal, discovering a spacious parking lot filled with various vehicles.
Unsuspecting pedestrians ambled to and fro, some heading for the terminal or other points, some walking toward their cars. A number of soldiers were threading their way across the parking lot.
Damn!
Hickok jogged into the maze of vehicles, surveying the parking lot, realizing the lot was surrounded by a chain-link fence. There was only one exit, a gate on the east side manned by a pair of guards. He made for the gate, studying every vehicle and pedestrian. Quite a few of the people he passed had heard the shots and were gazing at the terminal in transparent perplexity. Several noticed his Pythons and gave him a wide berth.