“What was that all about?” Hickok asked.
“Beats me,” Geronimo said.
“If you ask me, the man needs to eat more veggies.”
“Why?” Geronimo questioned.
“My mom always told me to eat my veggies or my mind would wind up warped,” the gunman elaborated.
“That explains everything.”
Chapter Two
“You won’t like what you’re about to hear,” President Toland predicted.
“Allow us to judge for ourselves,” Plato suggested, surveying the occupants of the room.
Eleven people were gathered in the conference chamber on the second floor of the Stapleton Terminal. Four stood near the closed door: Blade, Hickok, Geronimo, and General Reese. Seated at the rectangular wooden table were four Federation leaders and three representatives. President Toland sat at the head of the table, his back to a window affording a magnificent view of the imposing Rockies.
To Toland’s right was the frontiersman called Kilrane, a strapping man in the typical postwar garb of his people, buckskins. Kilrane was the head of the Calvary, the fiercely independent horde of horsemen who ruled the Dakota Territory. His hair was a light brown tinged with gray streaks, his eyes a deep blue. A Mitchell single-action revolver filled a holster on his right hip.
Sitting on Kilrane’s right was the leader of the Clan, a handsome man named Zahner. Originally his followers had resided in the gloomy, desolate shambles of the Twin Cities. Zahner had led one of three gangs struggling to survive in Minneapolis and St. Paul, until several Warriors and Joshua had arrived in the former metropolis. Joshua had persuaded the gangs to cease their hostilities, and the Family had aided them in relocating in the small town of Raima located in northwestern Minnesota. Zahner wore black trousers and a faded white shirt.
Next to Zahner was a jovial, rotund character wearing brown pants and a yellow shirt. His name was Crofton, and he was the official representative for the Federation faction known as the Moles. Prior to the war, a group of survivalists had excavated an underground complex in north-central Minnesota. Their descendants later expanded the complex into a sprawling subterranean city that was currently ruled with an iron fist by an egotistical man called Wolfe. Wolfe seldom attended Federation functions, and Crofton served as his eyes and ears.
After Crofton came White Eagle, the delegate from the Flathead Indians, the tribe controlling the former state of Montana. Their leader was a lovely woman called Star. The entire tribe had voted on White Eagle’s selection as their standby representative. His responsibility was to stand in for Star whenever she was unable to meet her obligations. A bout with the flu had prevented her from being present in Denver for the inaugural flight of the 757. White Eagle wore beaded buckskins and an elaborate headdress.
Seated beside Plato was the California delegate, a woman named Eudora Macquarie. She functioned as the Undersecretary of State, and her presence was directly attributable to her lowly status in the administration of Governor Melnick. Unlike the Civilized Zone, which consisted of the former states of Nebraska, Kansas, Wyoming, Colorado, Oklahoma, New Mexico, the northern half of Texas, and portions of Arizona, and was the successor of the once-mighty United States of America, the state of California still referred to its Chief Executive as a governor and not a president. Because Governor Melnick was one of the prime architects of the Federation Airline concept, along with President Toland, and because Melnick and his top staff, most of whom were professional politicians, wanted to be on hand to receive the praise and admiration of their constituents when the 757 arrived in L.A., Melnick had sent Eudora Macquarie to fill in on the Denver end. A prim woman wearing a full-length beige dress, she now sat with her arms folded on the table and her green eyes on President Toland.
“I want you to know that I accept full responsibility for the loss of the 757 and the people on board,” the Civilized Zone’s leader was saying. “I should have postponed the flight until the information I recently received was verified.”
“What information?” Kilrane inquired.
“Spit it out, man,” Crofton said.
Toland rested his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands, the picture of misery. “I should start at the beginning.” he stated, and looked at Plato. “Was it in July that one of the Hurricanes disappeared?”
Plato was surprised by the query. “Yes,” he confirmed. “The VTOL had transported Blade and two other Warriors to Florida, but it never returned to retrieve them.”
Toland nodded. “Okay. As I’m sure all of you are aware, California owns a pair of technological marvels, two jets with vertical-takeoff-and-landing capability. VTOLs they’re called, and they’re utilized as shuttles between the Federation factions and to ferry strike teams to hot spots. In July one of the jets took Blade to a spot near Miami. We know the Hurricane returned to California after being refueled by a tanker en route. The pilot, a Captain Lyle Stuart, was sent to pick up Blade and the other Warriors a week later.” He paused, frowning.
“The Hurricane never arrived,” Blade said, finishing for him. “My friends and I were forced to return to the Home through the Outlands.”
The leaders and representatives exchanged knowing glances.
They were all familiar with the dreaded Outlands, the designation applied to all areas existing outside the few organized territories. The Russians governed a belt of land in the eastern half of the country, and in the wake of World War Three over a dozen strong city-states had arisen, each under the thumb of a different group or leader. But the Russians, the city-states, and the Federation members were the exception, not the rule.
Most of the once-proud United States of America had reverted to a primitive state of savagery, where the survival of the fittest was the acknowledged law of the land.
“How long did it take you to get back to your Home from Miami?”
Crofton queried.
“Three months,” Blade answered.
“And the trip was sheer hell every step of the way,” Zahner commented.
He had previously discussed the journey with Blade.
“It wasn’t easy,” the head Warrior stated.
“I thought it was a piece of cake,” Hickok quipped.
“Were you with Blade?” Kilrane asked.
“Yep,” the gunman said.
“Now you know why it took three months,” Geronimo remarked.
Blade gazed at President Toland. “We never did discover the reason the Hurricane failed to return.”
“I may know,” Toland said sadly.
“No one told us,” Plato mentioned.
“I haven’t told anyone,” President Toland responded. “And I committed a terrible blunder.”
“We’re listening,” Plato stated.
Toland sat back in his chair. “Five days ago I stumbled across information concerning the missing jet. I should explain. The Civilized Zone is the largest Federation faction. Our borders are widespread, and we must continually patrol our boundaries for mutants, raiders, and scavengers.” He rubbed his chin slowly, his lips compressing. “We also keep a watch out for black marketeers who are attempting to smuggle contraband into the Civilized Zone. All of you know about the black market. Because of the chronic shortages we all face, the black market flourishes. None of us have much of a manufacturing capability. To tell you the truth, I don’t much mind having food, clothing, and other necessities smuggled in, but I draw the line at drugs, alcohol, and less savory products. Six days ago one of our border patrols apprehended a smuggler trying to bring cocaine in. We had him dead to rights, and he knew it.”
“He offered to make a deal,” Blade guessed.
“Exactly,” President Toland said. “He claimed he possessed information vital to the Federation’s future. The interrogating officer didn’t believe him for a minute, not until the smuggler alleged he knew the whereabouts of a Federation jet.”