Blade stared at their backs, took a breath, and charged, his long legs flying, covering six feet at a spring, his finger on the AK-47 trigger just in case they turned.
Neither so much as suspected his presence. With a final leap Blade was behind them, clubbing one with the stock, the second with the barrel.
Both stumbled and fell to their knees, and he struck each man again, knocking them senseless. A glance in both directions insured there were no witnesses. Blade slung the AK-47 over his left arm, then crouched and draped an unconscious Russian over each broad shoulder. His massive leg muscles quivered as he rose and hurried toward the room where the weapons had been stashed.
If soldiers emerged from any of the rooms now, he’d be at their mercy.
Blade reached the door and attempted to turn the knob, frowning when he discovered it was locked. He stepped back, clasped the Russians firmly, and delivered a kick with his right boot, his steely sinews snapping the lock, splitting the jamb, and causing the door to fly inward. He entered, groped for a light switch, and flicked on the light, then lowered the soldiers to the floor. As he shut the door he surveyed the chamber, noting a row of metal lockers lined against the rear wall, a rack of AK-47’s on the left wall and, of all things, a blackboard on the right.
What was the reason for the blackboard?
In the center of the room stood two tables piled with weapons and gear, and there, on the top of the nearest heap, were the Bowies in their sheaths.
Blade let the AK-47 fall and crossed to the table. A garment in another pile caught his attention, and he suddenly realized all of their clothing, evidently taken from the jeep, lay in a jumbled bundle.
He looked down at himself, at the ludicrous uniform, and, in a fit of annoyance, took hold of the front of his shirt, his brawny hands bunching the fabric, and yanked his arms outward, popping every button. Working swiftly, he removed the Soviet uniform and donned his green fatigue pants, the leather vest, and his Bowies. Why bother wearing the Russian uniform anymore? he reasoned. Every soldier at the L.R.F. must be aware that the Warriors were on the premises, so the uniform had lost its value as a disguise. Besides, he was tired of feeling cramped and uncomfortable.
If he had to take on the Russian Army, then he would confront them in his own clothes. He patted his pants pockets, verifying the spare ammo was still there.
Almost ready.
Blade slung Geronimo’s SAR over his left shoulder, and tucked the tomahawk under his belt next to his left Bowie. He placed the Arminius in the small of his back, then paused.
What should he do about Hickok’s buckskins and gunbelt, Geronimo’s shoulder holster and clothes, and their moccasins?
He walked to the row of dull green metal lockers and opened one in the center.
Bingo.
The locker contained a brown backpack, a web belt with a survival knife attached, a Russian helmet, and a uniform shirt. He went from locker to locker, finding identical gear in every one. Were these storage lockers for some of the troops? He took a backpack from the last locker and returned to the table, taking but a few seconds to cram everything inside, then donned the pack. Satisfied, he stepped to the door, threw it wide, and stalked into the corridor.
And walked right into trouble.
A trio of soldiers stood 20 feet to the right, their AK-47’s at their sides, in the act of advancing down the hall, their expressions reflecting their bewilderment at his abrupt appearance.
Blade shot them. He whipped the Commando from right to left, the heavy slugs tearing into the troopers and slamming them to the floor with their chests perforated, their bodies racked by spasms. Since he knew additional Russians would be coming up the stairwell after him, he opted to wheel to the left and head for the end of the corridor. Only then did he realize the klaxons had stopped wailing.
Someone must have heard the Commando.
So what?
He hadn’t gone ten yards when he saw the elevator and halted in front of the door. The numbers overhead indicated the car was on its way down.
Good. He pushed the button and surveyed the corridor.
No reinforcements yet.
In 15 seconds the elevator arrived, the door sliding open to reveal two officers, each of whom wore a pistol in a belt holster.
“What the hell!” the older of the pair blurted.
Blade sent several rounds into the older officer’s face, the impact hurling the Russian against the rear of the car. He collapsed at the feet of the younger officer, who seemed to be in a state of shock.
“Do you know who I am?” Blade asked harshly, moving into the elevator and touching the tip of the Commando barrel to the officer’s forehead.
“Yes,” the man exclaimed, gulping.
“And you must know about the Hurricane out front.”
“Yes,” the officer said.
“And here’s the question that determines whether you live or die,” Blade informed him. “I know the pilot survived, and I suspect he’s being forced to teach your pilots about our VTOL. Where is he?”
The officer licked his lips. “The seventh floor,” he divulged quickly.
“He’s being held on the seventh floor.”
“Congratulations. You get to live.”
“Thanks,” the officer responded weakly.
Blade hit the button for the seventh floor, and then hit the young officer squarely on the jaw with his left fist, his shoulder and arm muscles rippling, crumpling the hapless Russian. “But I never said I’d leave you in one piece,” he commented, and unslung the SAR.
The elevator reached the seventh floor an instant later.
With the Commando in his right hand and the SAR in his left. Blade emerged into a hornet’s nest of Russian soldiers. He cut loose ambidextrously, firing in both directions, taking the Soviets completely unawares, the stocks of both weapons clamped under his armpits to absorb the recoil. There were too many troopers to bother counting them; he simply mowed them down in droves, their death wails and screams commingling in an eerie chorus. His withering hail of lead caught those foolish enough to rush from various rooms upon hearing the thundering of his weapons. Only when the SAR went empty did he cease firing.
Crimson-splattered figures littered the corridor, many moaning and contorting in anguish.
Blade tilted his head and shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Captain Stuart! Captain Lyle Stuart! Can you hear me? This is Blade!”
A muffled cry came from a door 20 feet to the right.
Alert for the merest hint of hostility, Blade threaded a path over and between the corpses and the wounded and halted next to the door.
“Captain Stuart?” He slung the SAR over his left shoulder.
“Blade? Is it really you? The door is locked.”
“Stand back,” Blade advised. He executed a snap kick to the wood near the knob, and there was a resounding crack and the door popped open.
A lean, handsome man attired in the blue uniform of a pilot in the Free State of California Air Force stepped into view, limping on his left leg. His features were haggard and pale, but his green eyes were lively and radiating happiness. “I never expected to see you again!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe you came for me!”
“Save the celebrating for later,” Blade said. “Can you walk?”
“The leg was fractured when these sons of bitches brought me down,” le disclosed. “It’s pretty much healed. I’ll keep up. Don’t worry.”
“Then grab an AK-47 and stick by my side,” Blade stated.
Lyle shuffled into the hall and took an assault rifle from a slain soldier.
“Are you here alone?”
“Hickok and Geronimo are with me, sort of,” Blade replied.
“Sort of?”
“We can’t stay on this floor,” Blade said, heading for the elevator. “The Russians will throw everyone they have at us now. Do you know where the control room is located?”