One wall of the room was filled with sophisticated electronic equipment. There was a wooden table aligned against the wall, and several pieces of equipment were on top of the table. In front of the table was a swivel chair, and in the chair, slumped forward so his forehead was resting on the edge of the table, was a trooper, a pair of headphones on his ears.
Blade crossed to the chair and touched the trooper’s left shoulder.
The chair swiveled to one side, causing the trooper to begin to slide toward the cement floor. There was a neat hole in the back of the soldier’s head, and a larger cavity where his right eye had once been.
Rudabaugh, Blade guessed. It looked like the type of wound a Winchester would make. Evidently, Rudabaugh had caught this trooper in the act of radioing for assistance.
The soldier slipped from the chair and landed in a disjointed pile on the floor.
Blade leaned down and stripped the headphones from the soldier. He placed them over his own ears.
“Charlie-Alfa-Tango-Lima-Oscar-Whiskey, come in, please!”
Blade sat down in the chair and studied the equipment on the table.
“Charlie-Alfa-Tango-Lima-Oscar-Whiskey, come in, please!” a faint voice requested.
Blade racked his memory. The Warriors had confiscated some portable radio equipment during their previous encounters with the Army, but the items on the table were completely different in many respects. He recalled his hours spent in the Family library, and one book in particular.
Kurt Carpenter, the Founder of the Home, had personally stocked the hundreds of thousands of books included in the library. Books on every conceivable subject. History books, literature books, humorous books, music books, books on math, geography, astronomy, and all other branches of science. Encyclopedias, dictionaries, and reference books galore. How-to books proliferated. Carpenter had foreseen the Family’s future need for sources of knowledge and instruction. Accordingly, he had included books on the fundamentals of everything from gardening and weaving to metalworking and gunsmithing. As an added treat, Carpenter had added scores upon scores of photographic books to the library. These photographic books, filled as they were with pictures of the prewar society and its incredible accomplishments and lifestyle, were especially cherished by the Family, affording a glimpse of the wonders of the previous age. One of the books, a book Blade remembered at this instant, contained glossy photos and a fascinating narration of the astonishing array of electronic means of communication: television, radios, CBs, telephones, and more.
Blade reached out and took hold of a metallic stick on a stand. If his memory served, this thing was called a microphone. There was a black switch on the base of the microphone. He depressed it and heard an audible click.
“This is Charlie-Alfa-Tango-Lima-Oscar-Whiskey,” he said into the microphone, hoping his hunch was correct, and released the switch.
There were several seconds of static in the headphones.
Had he been wrong? Did he have to do something else to get this contraption to send a signal?
“Charlie-Alfa-Tango-Lima-Oscar-Whiskey, we receive you,” the faint voice stated. “What happened to you? You were cut off in midsentence.
You were saying something about an emergency. What emergency?”
Blade cleared his throat and pressed the switch. “The emergency is over,” he informed the man at the other end. “But I do need to ask a favor.”
“A favor? What are you talking about?” the man demanded.
“I need you to relay a message for me,” Blade told him.
“Say, who is this?” the man asked. “Is it you, Darren?”
“No, this isn’t Darren.”
“Then who is it?” the man impatiently queried.
“My identity isn’t important,” Blade replied. “Will you relay my message or not?”
“I don’t know who you are, buddy,” the man snapped, “but you’re in violation of standard operating procedure. Identity yourself!”
“Will you relay my message?” Blade reiterated.
“What message are you talking about? Why don’t you send it yourself? Who the hell is this?”
“I need you to send a message to the Doktor,” Blade stated.
“The Doktor? Are you crazy?” The man sounded fearful.
“Will you do it?” Blade prompted him.
“Are you serious? The Doktor? I could be taking my life in my hands!” The man paused. “What’s this message, anyway?”
“You’ll do it?”
“I didn’t say that. First tell me what this message is that’s so important.”
Blade smiled. “I can assure you the Doktor will want to receive this message. You have nothing to worry about.”
“So what the hell is it?”
“Tell the Doktor this: Lynx sends his love.”
“Lynx! Lynx!” the man sputtered. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“It is no joke.”
“Are you trying to tell me Lynx is there, in Catlow? Who is this, anyway? What the hell kind of game are you playing? If you don’t—”
Blade removed the headphones and switched off the set. He had no doubt the message would get through to its destination. The radioman would consult with his superior, and they would endeavor to contact Catlow again. After failing several times, the radioman’s superior would notify his superior, and so it would go on up the line until someone with the proper authority decided to report the situation to the Doktor. Hours might pass, but the Doktor would be apprised of the message.
Would the Doktor respond as Plato and Lynx had predicted? From what Captain Reno had said about the million-credit reward, the Doktor just might take the bait. Certainly, a man with the Doktor’s intellect would deduce the setup was a trap of some kind. But the key to the success of this operation was the Doktor’s monumental ego; would the Doktor march into the ambush anyway, confident in his ability to exterminate his adversaries? Another factor would be the Doktor’s unquenchable thirst for revenge against Lynx. According to the diminutive mutant—and verified by the statements Captain Reno had made—the Doktor would want to get his hands on Lynx personally.
Which meant, if the assumptions were valid and events proceeded as projected, the tiny community of Catlow, Wyoming, was going to be visited by a prestigious psychopath and his murderous misfits.
Blade walked outside and spotted the SEAL parked next to the fountain.
Geronimo and Bertha walked up.
“There are eleven injured,” Geronimo reported. “Seven or eight will die soon, and the rest might pull through with the proper medical help.’’
“We’re not Healers,” Blade stated. “There’s nothing we can do for them.”
Hickok, Lynx, Rudabaugh and Orson approached and joined them.
“We were lucky today,” Blade declared. “We can thank the Spirit none of us was killed. Now we have to get ready for the Doktor—
“How are we going to let him know we’re here if none of the garrison can take the word to him?” Geronimo interjected.
“I’ve taken care of that,” Blade disclosed. He jerked his right thumb toward the command post. “There’s a radio inside. I’ve just sent a message to the Doktor.”
“The one we agreed on?” Lynx inquired.
Blade nodded. “The same one you gave when you destroyed the Biological Center in Cheyenne.”
Lynx grinned contentedly. “That’ll do it! I can’t wait to get my claws on the bastard!”
“We have a lot of preparations to make,” Blade announced. “I want Bertha, Rudabaugh, and Orson to cart these bodies into one of the buildings. We don’t have time to bury them. Hickok, I want you and Geronimo to round up the good citizens of Catlow and assemble them in the town square. See if you can get some of them to tend to the wounded soldiers and have them moved to a house on the north side of town. Lynx, I want you to scout around. See how many vehicles there are in town. Also look for any supplies the garrison might have had stashed, especially weapons or explosives.” He paused. “Okay! Hop to it!”