With a loud whump-whump-whump the military craft shot over the SEAL and continued to the west.
“They didn’t try to nail us,” Marcus remarked in bewilderment.
Hickok spied an alley a block off on the right side of the highway, and he made for it without delay.
“Why didn’t they open fire?” Marcus asked.
“Maybe they want to take the SEAL intact,” Geronimo conjected, “or else they want us alive.”
“They’ll get us over my dead body,” Hickok snapped, and jerked on the steering wheel as the transport arrived at the alley. The SEAL narrowly missed the building on the left and was 15 feet inside the alley before he slammed on the brakes. “Wait here,” he directed them, shifting into Park.
He grabbed the Henry from the console and quickly climbed from the van.
Where were the Commies? he wondered. He anticipated the choppers would materialize over the alley in force, but ten seconds elapsed and they failed to appear although he could hear the sound of their rotors.
What the blazes was going on?
The gunman ran to the mouth of the alley and peered out. To the north, hovering several hundred yards from Strawberry Point, was one of the helicopters. He glanced over his right shoulder and found a second craft positioned to the south, likewise holding back. Why were the vermin waiting to attack?
Seconds later a third chopper appeared, this time off to the east at the far edge of town. The copter alighted in the center of the highway and sat there, its blades still spinning, apparently waiting.
For what? Hickok speculated.
The fourth helicopter suddenly swooped down to the west and landed just outside of Strawberry Point, its fuselage across the highway, not more than 60 yards away.
Hickok hefted the Henry, feeling frustrated. They were boxed in. He turned and motioned with his right arm at the transport, and moments later Geronimo and Marcus joined him.
“What are they doing?” Geronimo queried.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Hickok responded. “They have us hemmed in on all four sides.”
“I vote we make a break for it,” Marcus proposed.
“And if they won’t move out of our way, we can ram them,” Hickok said facetiously.
“Now you’re talking,” Marcus replied eagerly.
“We have company,” Geronimo observed.
The gunfighter glanced at the helicopter to the west. A tall, lean man in the uniform of an officer, his chest decorated with ribbons, was stepping from the cabin, his shoulders hunched against the wind from the rotors, his hands holding his cap in place on his head. He advanced for 20 yards, then halted with his hands on his hips. “Warriors!” he bellowed. “We must talk.”
“I’ll go,” Hickok said. “The two of you can cover my back.”
“You shouldn’t be the one to go,” Geronimo remarked.
“Why not? I won’t let the mangy polecat get the jump on me,” Hickok promised.
“I doubt he speaks Martian.”
The gunman glared at Geronimo, then slung the Henry over his left shoulder and ambled toward the Russian. He could see other soldiers in the helicopter, but they made no move to leave the craft.
The officer came forward to meet the Warrior halfway, his steps clipped and precise. His uniform was immaculate, his boots polished to a sheen. A square jaw contributed to the impression he conveyed of no-nonsense authority, a soldier of distinction and a man who wielded power dispassionately. “I am Major General Ligachev,” he announced when he halted two yards from Hickok.
“Howdy. I’m the Lone Ranger.”
Ligachev smirked and shook his head. “You are the Warrior called Hickok, are you not?”
The gunman’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know my name?”
“You were captured once and taken to Washington, D.C., where you were interrogated by Comrade General Malenkov,” Ligachev went on, ignoring the question. “Unfortunately, you escaped.”
“I’m partial to my freedom,” Hickok said. “Besides, some of the folks there were a mite inhospitable.”
“You are a close friend to the top Warrior, Blade. You were with him in Cincinnati when he destroyed our greatest scientific achievement, Lenin’s Needle,” Ligachev stated.
“That doohickey was an eyesore.”
“You are en route now to Boston, where you hope to rescue Blade. How many are with you?”
Hickok didn’t like the smug tone the officer was using. “You seem to know an awful lot about me,” he commented.
“How many of your fellow Warriors are with you?” Major General Ligachev repeated.
“I’ve plumb forgotten. Ten or twenty, I reckon.”
The officer gazed toward the alley, then at Hickok. “The number doesn’t matter. All of you will surrender immediately. You will lay down your arms and step to the middle of the street with your hands overhead.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Ligachev gestured at the helicopter to his rear. “I have four such aircraft at my disposal. Each one is armed with machine guns, rockets, and nose cannons. Your vaunted SEAL is formidable and durable, but your van can’t withstand my little fleet.”
Hickok glanced at the chopper. “I reckon we can give you a run for your money.”
“Be sensible,” Ligachev said. “There is no way you will escape. Our trap has been too carefully planned. We have expended considerable time, energy, and expense to spring our surprise, and we have foreseen every contingency.”
The Warrior studied the officer’s cold green eyes and haughty countenance. “This was planned?”
“Of course, you moron,” Major General Ligachev stated. “Allow me to elaborate so you will fully appreciate the extent of our genius and the folly of resisting us. As I noted, you are en route to Boston to try and save Blade, who was abducted slightly over a week ago while on his way back to the Home from Halma. Am I correct so far?”
Hickok merely nodded.
“Your accursed Family had no idea where the giant could be, although you did find signs of a struggle, until one of you discovered a matchbook,” Ligachev related arrogantly. “Am I still correct?”
“You’re a regular mind reader.”
“I get better. Part of the matchbook cover was missing, but the matches clearly came from Sam’s Bar in Boston, Massachusetts. Your Elders decided to send a rescue mission, which explains your presence in this quaint town,” Ligachev said.
Hickok wanted to bash his head against the nearest building. He felt like such a chump. “The matches were a plant.”
Major General Ligachev chuckled. “The matches were a plant. Did you really believe one of our elite commando teams, the HGP Unit, no less, would be stupid enough to leave such incriminating evidence behind? We wanted you to find the matches. General Malenkov knew your Family would send Warriors to Blade’s rescue. He predicted the SEAL would be used, and he arranged for our welcoming committee.”
“But we’re not even in Russian territory,” Hickok said lamely.
“You will be by midnight,” Ligachev stated. “We intended to spring our trap where you would least expect it, and you undoubtedly did not suspect we were in this area. Did you?”
“No,” Hickok admitted.
“Actually, the SEAL has been under surveillance since one of my flight spotted a spiral of smoke earlier. You see, although we couldn’t be certain of the exact route you would take, logic dictated you would travel in a relatively direct line because of the time factor, which in your estimation would be critical. It was no wondrous feat to calculate that you would cut across the northeast corner of Iowa. Since we already knew of your predilection for traveling on secondary roads as opposed to the major highways, all we had to do was fly a grid pattern over the northeast corner, concentrating on the secondary roads, until one of us spotted the SEAL.