“Let’s hope so.”
Yama slowly stood. “I’d better change. Will you watch over my own clothes while I’m gone?”
“I’ll do it,” Adam eagerly volunteered.
“Are you planning to take your own guns or one of the M-16’s?” Seth inquired.
“Why?”
“Well, you’d be less likely to draw attention if you’re carrying an M-16.”
“I know,” Yama acknowledged, “which is another reason I’m going in at night. My skills are at maximum effectiveness using versatile arsenals. I can hide my revolver and pistol under the uniform shirt, no problem. In the dark, my Wilkinson shouldn’t be too conspicuous if I carry it close to my leg.”
“But what about your knife and sword?” Seth queried. “I’ve never seen a sword like yours before, and I’m sure no one in the Citadel has one like it.”
“I’ll put the knife in my left boot,” Yama replied. “As for my scimitar, if I attach a leather strap to the hilt and loop the strap around my neck, close to the collar, I can suspend my sword down my back, under the shirt. No one will know I’m carrying it.”
“Like my wife said,” Seth remarked, “you seem to have an answer for everything.”
“I’m trained to be imaginative, to devise creative solutions to difficult problems,” Yama said. “Our teachers were always telling us to think fast, to think on our feet.”
“You do it remarkably well,” Seth complimented him.
Yama moved toward the barn. “I left the uniform I’ll need in the barn.
I’ll change and be right back.”
“Wait for me!” Adam called, and darted after the man in blue.
“You promise to take good care of my clothes?” Yama asked as the boy caught up with him.
“I’ll stick them under my mattress,” Adam said. “Nothing will get them there.”
“Good. It took the Weavers a lot of time and effort to make my garment and I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”
Adam attempted to match his stride to Yama’s. “You be real careful in the Citadel. If they catch you, they’ll kill you.”
“I don’t intend to get caught,” Yama stated.
“Just be careful,” Adam stressed.
The Mason dogs ambled around the southern corner of the barn.
“There’s Huck and Tom!” Adam exclaimed, elated. He knelt and the two dogs, one brown and the other black and both more beagle than anything else, ran up to him and playfully licked his face and hands.
“Are you a Mark Twain fan?” Yama inquired.
Adam glanced up. “I have two of his books in my room. My dad had them when he was my age. They’re hard to read sometimes but a lot of fun. Do you like to read?”
“Very much. Everyone at the place I come from, at our Home, likes to read. It’s one of our favorite pastimes. We have hundreds of thousands of books in our Library, and you’ll be welcome to read them at your leisure.”
“Nifty! I’d like that.” Adam stood.
Yama continued toward the barn. “Just remember to treat the books gently. Many of the pages are slightly discolored and will rip or crumple very easily.”
“I’ll remember,” Adam pledged.
They entered the barn and walked over to one of the stalls. Earlier, Yama had draped the officer’s uniform over one side of the stall. He leaned the Wilkinson against the wall and stripped off the shoulder holsters for the Browning and the Smith and Wesson, placing the handguns on the floor.
“Will I get to have guns like yours at this home of yours?” Adam asked.
“When you’re much older, possibly,” Yama answered, grinning. He started to remove his standard dark-blue garment.
“Brother!” Adam exclaimed in awe. “Where did you get all those muscles? You must be the strongest man alive!”
Yama chuckled, his highly developed musculature rippling as he moved. “I have a friend named Blade who has more muscles than I do. Many more.”
“I can’t believe that,” Adam said.
“You’ll see for yourself when you meet him,” Yama stated. “And you’ll meet another man named Samson. He has as many muscles as I do, possibly even a few more. So you see, I’m not the strongest man alive.”
“One of the strongest, then,” Adam persisted, “and it’s a good thing too.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’ll need a lot of strength to stay alive in the Citadel.”
Gail Mason’s voice interrupted their conversation. “Adam! Adam! I need you for a minute! Adam!”
“You’d better go,” Yama urged the boy.
Adam walked to the barn door. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, and ran off.
Yama finished exchanging clothes. The officer’s uniform was a tight fit, but it would suffice. He began arming himself as he’d planned, reflecting on his mission. Plato needed a firsthand report on the Citadel, and that was exactly what he would receive. And, Yama mentally vowed, not the soldiers, not the genetically created creatures produced in the Doktor’s lab, not even the Doktor would prevent him from successfully completing his assignment. He might not be the strongest man alive, but he was a Warrior and the Warriors were noted for their tenacity.
So look out, Citadel!
He was on his way!
Chapter Seven
The troop transport arrived at their destination within five minutes of Hickok’s rather abrupt departure. Blade noted that the big truck slowly braked to a smooth stop; apparently, the driver was extremely reluctant to further arouse the colonel’s ire.
“On your feet,” Captain Rice ordered.
Blade and Geronimo moved to the rear of the truck and jumped to the ground.
Twelve soldiers were lined up at attention behind the troop transport.
Colonel Jarvis appeared. “I told you to expect a surprise.” He gestured to their left, grinning. “I trust you’re not disappointed?”
The two Warriors turned, their expressions telling the whole story, unable to conceal their shock.
It was a stockade, a tremendous stockade situated in the middle of a field, constructed of huge posts imbedded in the earth and strand after strand of barbed wire encircling the enclosure to a height of twenty feet.
Positioned immediately outside the stockade, at points corresponding with due north, east, south, and west, were four tall sentry towers complete with mounted machine guns and spotlights powered by a generator placed on the bed of another troop transport. Soldiers were everywhere, dozens and dozens of them, some milling about, at ease, off duty, while others manned the guard towers or stood at attention beside the barbed wire.
“Pinch me, Blade,” Geronimo said.
“I see them too,” Blade affirmed.
“Look at them all!” Geronimo commented, stunned.
Blade was looking, his mind unwilling to lend any credence to the sight his eyes beheld. How many were there? Five hundred? Eight hundred? A thousand? The stockade was literally crammed with a packed sea of humanity.
“Admit it,” Jarvis urged, pleased with himself. “You never expected this!”
“Not in my worst nightmare,” Blade confessed. He detected prisoners attired in black and others with Mohawk haircuts, and he realized what had transpired before Jarvis began bragging.
“Seven hundred and thirty-one,” Colonel Jarvis proudly disclosed. “All that’s left of the Horns, the Porns, and the Nomads.”
“All that’s left?” Geronomo questioned, astonished. “But there were about twelve hundred of them, all told.”
“Not any more,” Jarvis revealed. “The rest are dead. Oh, there may be a few still in hiding, but the majority of them now stand before you, my captives.”
Blade discerned the obvious relish with which Jarvis said that last word.