“Me too,” echoed the driver.
Yama crawled forward and risked a peek around the corner of the cab.
The first flatbed was still stopped at the gate, the driver joking and laughing with the guard.
How much longer would they dally at the gate? Time was a crucial factor; he had to be out of the Citadel by daylight. He might be able to roam the city undetected at night, but Yama doubted he’d pass a close scrutiny in the light of day.
The first flatbed gunned its motor and drove into the Citadel.
Yama smiled. The Spirit was smiling on his enterprise. The guards were not bothering to check the flat-beds, and why should they? The Citadel had never been attacked nor the Civilized Zone invaded for over a century. Why should they expect any trouble now?
The second flatbed was passing through the massive gate.
Yama ducked and scurried under the tarp, pulling it over his head and holding the Wilkinson close to his chest. A moment later, the last of the flatbeds moved slowly forward.
Yama could feel the truck sway slightly as the driver turned left to enter the Citadel.
“Hey! How ya doin’, Buck?” asked the driver.
“Fine. You got time for a brew or two?”
“Sorry. Not tonight.”
“Catch me next time, then.”
Evidently the driver knew one of the guards.
Yama counted to twenty and elevated the edge of the tarp.
They were inside the Citadel!
The flatbeds were driving north on a wide avenue, a thoroughfare packed with vehicles, again the majority of them military. Running along both sides of the avenue were sidewalks crammed with people. Yama realized the population density in the Citadel must be staggering. As a Warrior, when at the Home, he was obligated to work day shifts, evening shifts, and graveyard shifts on a rotating basis, and he deduced the same practice prevailed here. This made his task easier. In a crowd like this, he should be able to travel unchallenged.
The convoy kept bearing north for some time, its progress impeded by the crush of traffic. Finally, the flatbeds turned right on Pershing Boulevard.
Yama tensed.
They were almost there.
The Biological Center. The domain of the malevolent Doktor.
One of the Doktor’s creations, a genetically spawned creature named Gremlin, had defected to the Family and provided extensive details on the interior of the Citadel. Gremlin had argued with Plato concerning the wisdom of sending a Warrior on a spying mission to the Citadel, contending the Warrior would never make it out of Cheyenne alive. Once convinced that Plato could not be dissuaded, Gremlin had then warned Plato that the Warrior should avoid the Biological Center. “At all costs, yes?” Plato had passed on the admonition to Yama after the Warriors had drawn lots to determine which one of them would perform the spying mission; Yama had drawn the short straw.
And there it was! Rising seven stories high, situated to the west of the V.A. Hospital, constructed of a black synthetic substance, rose the Biological Center. As with the rest of the Citadel at night, it was plainly illuminated by the dozens and dozens of street lights and spotlights positioned at periodic intervals. On the north, west, and south sides of the Biological Center were enormous parking lots, and the Army was assembling its forces on these lots in preparation for the assault against the Cavalry in South Dakota. Row after row of vehicles lined the parking areas; all of the jeeps, troop carriers, supply trucks, and others were gathered for the invasion.
The flatbeds pulled into a lot on the west side of the Biological Center and parked in a row near the south side of the lot.
Yama eased under the tarp and waited. He heard the driver and his companion exit the flatbed, slamming their doors and engaging in idle discussion as they walked off. In the near distance rose the sound of the vehicle traffic on the streets and avenues of Cheyenne. He also could hear someone shouting, although the words were indistinguishable.
As silently as possible, the Warrior slid out from under the tarp and crawled to the edge of the flatbed. The parking area was well lit, but he was concealed in the shadow of the missile launcher. He gazed around.
The parking lots were apparently deserted, except for the vast array of military equipment.
Yama dropped to the tarmac and walked around the cab of the flatbed.
Where was everyone? Indulging in a last fling before the war against the Cavalry?
Yama was amazed at how lightly the Army seemed to take its opposition. How could they afford to be so confident?
Whoever was doing all the shouting was still at it.
Yama casually strolled in the general direction of the Biological Center.
He recalled Gremlin’s warning and promptly disregarded it. The Biological Center was the Doktor’s base of operations. In it, the Doktor produced his genetic deviates, his league of killers and monstrosities. From it, the Doktor exerted a profound, terrifying influence over the entire Civilized Zone. The Doktor, so the story went, was almost as powerful as Samuel the Second. Some claimed he was the real power in the Civilized Zone, that Samuel ruled as the Doktor’s puppet.
Whatever the case, Yama thought with a grin, it was imperative to include the Biological Center in his scenic tour of the Citadel.
The Warrior had already passed several rows of trucks and was stepping into an open space between the rows when the voice assailed him.
“Hey! Hold it!”
Yama stopped, the Wilkinson at his right side.
“Hey! I’m talkin’to you!”
Yama turned, fingering the trigger on the Wilkinson.
Five soldiers were standing fifteen yards away, behind a supply truck with its tailgate down. One of them held an M-16.
“You hard of hearin’, fellow?” demanded the trooper with the M-16.
“My ears function perfectly,” Yama replied, stalling, his eyes darting right and left as he scanned for other soldiers in the vicinity.
“What are you? A smart-ass?” The trooper advanced on Yama.
Chapter Fourteen
“I trust you’ve enjoyed your meal?”
“My compliments to your cook. What was it? I’ve never tasted meat quite like it before.”
Colonel Jarvis leaned back in his wooden folding chair and placed his hands over his slightly paunchy belly. “You’ve never eaten steak before?”
Blade, seated across from the officer at a small table in his tent, stared at the bone on his paper plate. “The Family normally consumes venison. Once, years ago, one of our horses was struck by lightning and we all had horse meat for several meals in a row. But I’ve never had meat like this. What animal was it from?”
“A cow.”
“Did you bring the cow from Denver?”
Jarvis laughed. “No. Cattle are roaming loose all over the place. There’s a big herd not more than ten miles west of the Twin Cities. I had some of my men bag one this morning. Rank does have its privileges, you know.”
“So I see,” Blade acknowledged.
Colonel Jarvis reached into his right shirt pocket and removed a thin cigar. “Care for a smoke?” He extracted a box of matches from his left pocket.
“No. I don’t smoke.”
“Of course. Ever the noble Warrior, eh? I’d imagine you don’t have too many vices, do you?”
“Why should I? Vices impair your effectiveness and inhibit spiritual communion with our Creator. None of the Family smokes or drinks alcohol, although I understand both practices were widespread before the Big Blast.”
“The Big Blast?” the colonel repeated. Then he nodded. “Oh. I forgot. That’s how your people refer to the Third World War. Cute. But let me ask you something…” Jarvis said, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the Warrior, “about this Creator business. Do you really mean to tell me you believe in a God?”