Then we simply reformed and sprang our trap,” Ligachev related.
“But you couldn’t have known what day we’d be comin’ through,” Hickok noted. He took a quirky delight in being able to criticize their meticulous plot.
“Which is why we have worked in six-hour shifts on a rotational basis.
My flight is not the only one. There are three other flights of four copters apiece, and each of our flights pulls a six-hour shift daily. If we pulled a longer shift, we would expend our fuel and be unable to reach our base,” Ligachev said. “We’ve been waiting for the SEAL for a week. Frankly, we expected you long before this.”
“Glad we disappointed you.”
“Now don’t be petty,” the officer stated testily. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Our superior intellect was bound to prevail.”
“Gee, I wish I was wearin’ boots,” Hickok quipped.
Major General Ligachev frowned. “Enough of this idle chatter. I have graciously explained more than was necessary.”
“Why didn’t you bozos just blow the SEAL to bits? Why go to all this trouble?” Hickok asked.
“Because General Malenkov gave specific orders to avoid damaging the SEAL, if possible. Your vehicle is quite unique, and our scientists and engineers could learn a lot by examining it. Be smart and lay down your weapons. Now.”
“And if we don’t oblige?”
“Then we will reduce the SEAL to so much scrap. General Malenkov prefers the van in one piece, but he commanded us to obliterate it if you won’t surrender,” Ligachev stated, and looked meaningfully at the gunman. “So don’t be a fool. I want your answer, and I want it now. Will you hand over your weapons and the SEAL?”
Hickok glanced back at the alley, then at the chopper. He grinned and leaned forward slightly. “I know all Russian soldiers are supposed to be able to speak Russian and English, right?”
Major General Ligachev squared his shoulders. “All of our troops are bilingual. Why?”
“I want to be sure you’ll get my drift when I give you our answer.”
“Which is?” Ligachev snapped impatiently.
“Get stuffed.”
Chapter Seventeen
Blade executed a flying dive, his hands grabbing for the Falcon and the Beretta in midair. He came down hard on his elbows and knees, his body prone, and pointed the pistols at the three Soviet troopers.
The trio tried to bring their AK-47’s to bear. Impulsively, the foremost Russian elevated his barrel and fired from the hip, the blasting of the AK-47 being added to the wail of the klaxons. In his haste he missed.
Blade squeezed off a shot from the Falcon in his right hand, and he saw the round catch the soldier between the eyes and send the man stumbling backwards into one of the other troopers. The unaffected soldier raised his AK-47 to his shoulder, apparently foolishly intending to take the time to aim, but in the interval of less than a second that it took him to lift the assault rifle, a slug from the Beretta bored into his brain and burst out the rear of his skull.
The second Russian dropped.
Leaving only the third, who had shoved the first man aside and was bringing his AK-47 to bear on the giant when the Falcon and the Beretta both boomed. As one, the twin shots ripped through the soldier’s head and he spun around into the wall, then collapsed, leaving a crimson stain where his head made contact.
Blade heaved erect and sprinted to the three men. He wedged the pistols under his belt, then claimed two of the AK-47’s for his own, slinging one over his left shoulder and cradling the other. Moving fast, he walked to the door, glanced at the small sign that read STAIRWELL, and shoved the door wide. He entered the stairwell and paused on the landing.
The stairs continued upward, but there was no reason for him to ascend them. He started down at a brisk pace, taking three steps at a stride, thankful the blaring klaxons weren’t as loud in the stairwell. Two floors passed without any problems arising, and then a Russian soldier appeared on the next landing, hastening toward the Warrior.
The trooper’s eyes were on the steps.
Blade halted and leveled the AK-47. “Freeze,” he barked.
Startled, the Russian looked up. He made a desperate attempt to train his AK-47 on the giant.
The Warrior sent a short burst into the soldier’s chest, and the impact hurled the man rearward to crash onto the landing with his arms outflung. The trooper’s AK-47 sailed over the edge of the landing and plummeted to the bottom of the stairwell, clattering noisily when it hit the bottom.
Blade took the steps four at a time now, dominated by an urgent feeling to get well clear of the hospital before more reinforcements than he could handle arrived. He grinned when he saw the final landing below, and he dashed to the door and pressed his left ear to the panel.
Just as someone barreled into the door from the far side.
The door struck the Warrior in the temple and he threw his left forearm against it in sheer reflex, stopping its movement.
“What the hell!” someone blurted out on the other side.
Blade grabbed the edge and heaved, yanking the door open as he side stepped, aiming the AK-47 at the stocky figure in front of him.
Another Soviet soldier, a young officer armed with a pistol in a holster on his right hip, gaped at the giant. “You!” he cried.
“Me,” Blade said, and blasted the Russian at near point-blank range.
The man crumpled in a disjointed heap.
Somewhere a woman screamed.
The Warrior stepped over the officer and hurried down the corridor.
Unlike the sixth floor, this floor was crammed with people: nurses, doctors, patients, visitors, and other hospital staff, most of whom decided to make themselves scarce. They darted into rooms and slammed the doors. Those too scared or astonished to gather their wits simply flattened against the wall and watched him with wide eyes.
A man dressed in a white smock, a notebook in his left hand, stood his ground defiantly in the center of the hall and blocked the Warrior’s path.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded angrily. “What do you think you’re doing? You’re not going anywhere!”
“Bet me,” Blade responded, and planted his left fist on the man’s mouth. Teeth crunched, blood gushed from flattened lips, and the fool tottered rearward and fell, whining and gurgling.
A different woman screeched in terror.
Blade increased his speed, running as fast as he could, dodging people, carts, and wheelchairs. Thirty feet ahead he spied glass doors. Beyond the doors, beckoning him with the implied promise of freedom and hope, was sunlight.
A nurse built like a tank, over six feet in height and almost as wide, endeavored to intercept him. She moved to the doors and faced him with her hands on her broad hips. “Stop!” she shouted.
The Warrior slowed and motioned for her to step out of the way.
“You’ re not leaving, you son of a bitch!” she growled. Then, incredibly, she charged him.
Blade shifted the AK-47 to his left hand and halted, his right fist clenching tightly, amazed at her behavior, amazed that an unarmed nurse would needlessly risk her life trying to stop him. Unless, as with Milton and Krittenbauer, the nurse wasn’t as she seemed.
She assumed a boxing posture and waded into him swinging, her punches controlled and demonstrating a practiced rhythm.
Successfully dodging the first few blows, Blade was jarred by a clip on his jaw. He set himself and retaliated with a sweeping right to her nose.
The nurse clutched at her face and straightened, roaring in pain but still on her feet.
Blade frowned and went to skirt her, but her right hand flicked out and snagged his right forearm. Seething at the delay, he gripped the AK-47 and whipped the stock into her head with all of his might. She let go and wobbled to the right, her eyes fluttering. He promptly raced to the glass doors and pushed through to the outside, blinking in the bright sunshine, and inhaled the odorous city air gratefully.