For 70 years the Russian forces in American maintained their domination over the belt of occupied territories, receiving infrequent shiploads of supplies from the motherland. Then, all contact with the Soviet Union ceased. The shortwave and cryptographic communications from Russia stopped. All ships sent to investigate were never heard from again. The reason wasn’t a mystery.
The Soviet regime, weakened by the staggering cost of the war, both in terms of personnel and armaments, and beset at home by ever worsening shortages of the simple necessities, eventually succumbed to internal pressures brought to bear by the non-Russian peoples and the virulent ethnic minorities who had always resented Russian dominance. Many rose up in rebellion and toppled their Communists oppressors.
Leaving the Russians in America stranded.
Realizing that without reinforcements from the motherland their numbers would gradually dwindle until the subjugated Americans were tempted to revolt, the Russian leaders in the U.S. opted to establish an ingenious alternate system for replenishing their ranks. They began a system of modified racial breeding. Carefully selected American women were forcibly impregnated, and their children were raised by the State.
The offspring were educated, trained, and indoctrinated by the occupation government. Communism was exalted. Russian values and history were stressed. The system produced soldiers every bit as Russian and as devoted to Communism as if they had been born and raised in the U.S.S.R. All of them were fluent in Russian and English.
Berwin opened his eyes and stared at the wall, feeling oddly happy despite his predicament. At last his memory was starting to return! Now if he could only recall who the hell he was, he’d be delirious! Although he knew more than he did before, he still didn’t know what the Russians were up to at the hospital, and he had no idea how he fitted into the scheme of things.
So what should he do?
Stay where he was and try to uncover the Russian project? Or should he escape from the hospital? If he did, where would he go?
Damn.
What a mess.
Footsteps sounded outside and Nurse Krittenbauer entered, all smiles.
“Hi. How are you feeling?”
Berwin pasted a welcoming grin on his face. “Fine, thanks.”
“I heard you had a visitor,” she commented, coming over to the bed.
“Yeah. A janitor came in here and swept the floor. Doctor Milton didn’t seem very pleased.”
Krittenbauer scrutinized his face intently. “Did he explain the reason to you?”
Berwin nodded. “He was concerned about his patients.”
“What all did the janitor and you talk about?” Krittenbauer inquired casually.
“Not much.”
“Like what, specifically?” she prompted.
“Oh, he talked about his job and his wife. Nothing unusual. Why?”
Krittenbauer shrugged. “Just asking.”
“So what’s on the agenda today?” Berwin asked, her. “Do I get to go outdoors?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. But your family will be back to visit you later, so you shouldn’t be too bored.”
“I can hardly wait,” Berwin said, feigning enthusiasm.
“Can I get you anything?”
“How about explosives so I can blow a hole in the wall and a six-story-high ladder so I can climb down and escape this boredom?”
Berwin proposed.
Nurse Krittenbauer laughed. “Sorry. But you’re stuck here for the duration.”
Berwin sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Chapter Ten
In the millisecond before Marcus squeezed the trigger, he heard Geronimo cut loose with the FNC and knew the Indian’s nonchalance had been a sham. He saw six of the forms at the barricade topple over, then added a withering burst from the HK 94, downing four more. He instantly dove for the asphalt as the figures closing in from both sides opened up.
Bullets buzzed overhead and thudded into the road. Without a break in his motion, he rolled to the left, presenting as difficult a target as possible, swiveling and aiming at the attackers surging from the woods on his side of the highway. He aimed and fired on the move, and he was gratified to see three foes drop—and then he knew what they were.
The dozens of ambushers charging from the forest and manning the barricade were scavengers, a large band of predatory wanderers who preyed upon everyone they encountered. Scavengers were the bane of the postwar era, as prolific as the large rats that inhabited the underground sewers and tunnels in the cities. The Outlands were infested with both.
Marcus shot two more, continuing to roll, never lying still for a second.
To do so would mean his death.
Shabbily attired, many in filthy rags, and armed with everything from pitchforks to lever-action rifles, the scavengers screamed and bellowed as they rushed the two Warriors.
Geronimo and Marcus were taking a fierce toll of their adversaries, but the Warriors were hopelessly outnumbered. The fleetest scavengers were almost to Highway Three. In mere moments Geronimo and Marcus would be overwhelmed.
The heavy thundering of the SEAL’s 50-caliber machine guns rent the air, rising above the general din. A lethal hail of rounds punched into the scavengers on the barricade, mowing them down, and the whine of the transport’s engine increased sharply in volume as Hickok floored the accelerator and drove the vehicle directly at the obstruction.
The majority of the scavengers turned their attention to the SEAL, peppering its impervious shell with bullets, arrows, and even spears, all of which were deflected.
Briefly free of attackers, Marcus risked a glance at the transport and saw it 15 feet away and barreling forward. He expected the gunman to ram the barricade, but the brakes were abruptly applied at the last possible second and the SEAL screeched to a halt between Marcus and Geronimo.
The driver’s door was flung wide. “Get in!” Hickok shouted, then lunged at the passenger door.
Marcus pushed himself to his knees, about to bound to the SEAL, when he heard the thump of onrushing boots to his rear and whirled.
A tall man in jeans and a T-shirt, armed with a tire iron, was two strides off.
Marcus tried to bring the HK 94 into play, but the scavenger swung the tire iron, clipping the barrel and sending the Heckler and Koch flying.
Another blow hissed at Marcus’s head, and he duck and threw himself to the right. He rolled and began to rise, his right hand gripping the machete that jutted above his right shoulder, and he was still in a crouch when the machete came clear of its sheath and he whipped the blade across the scavenger’s abdomen, slicing through the T-shirt and into the soft flesh underneath, cutting the man open with the same ease he would cut a melon, disemboweling his adversary.
The man shrieked, released the tire iron, and clutched at his stomach as his intestines oozed forth.
Marcus snapped his arms in an arc, sinking the machete into the scavenger’s neck, nearly decapitating the man. He didn’t bother to watch the scavenger fall. Instead he turned to the SEAL and took a stride.
Another scavenger, a woman armed with a makeshift metal lance, bore down on him from the right, hatred distorting her features, dressed in ragged jeans and a blue blouse. “You killed George!” she cried.
Twisting, Marcus raised the machete to block the tip of the lance, batting the six-foot spear aside. The woman’s momentum carried her to within six inches of the Warrior, and he spun, reversing his hold on the hilt, and used a reverse thrust to impale the scavenger’s midriff, burying the machete all the way.