Or was it?
Blade waited until the two guards passed and were 50 yards off, nearing the gate. He waved to Sundance, then followed the guards, staying behind the trees.
The guards ambled at a leisurely pace.
Sundance caught up with Blade. “What are you doing?” he whispered.
“There’s no way we’ll get over that wall,” Blade responded. “Not with all the lights and the barbed wire and the guards.”
“So how do we get inside?”
“I’m working on that,” Blade informed him.
The pair of patrolling guards reached the gate and halted, engaging the quartet of soldiers already there in conversation.
Blade edged to within 20 yards of the front gate, then squatted in the shelter of a large oak.
Sundance joined the head Warrior.
The light on the eastern horizon was increasing.
Blade scrutinized the wall, at a loss for an idea to penetrate the Ministry’s defenses.
A muted rumble sounded from the northwest.
Blade glanced over his left shoulder.
A truck was slowly approaching the gate, still about 400 yards distant.
Blade squinted, striving to identify the truck. He wasn’t worried about being observed by the truck’s occupants; the trees were plunged in murky shadows.
The truck drove nearer.
Blade perceived the truck wasn’t a military vehicle. It was white, with a small cab and a square body.
The truck was 350 yards off.
Blade glanced at the gate, then the truck.
The truck reached the 300-yard mark.
Blade turned to Sundance. “I don’t have time to explain. I want you to stay here, right here, until I signal you or return.”
“What? Where are you going?” Sundance asked.
“No time,” Blade stated, and rose. He ran to the rear, keeping in the darkest areas, racing parallel with the road. His plan was perilous, but if he succeeded, he would be inside the Ministry in a matter of minutes. But he had to reach the 100-yard mark before the white truck.
The truck was 250 yards from the gate.
Blade sprinted full out, his eyes glued to the inky section of road next to an enormous willow tree. If he could reach that spot before the truck, and if his estimation of the truck’s size was accurate, he could carry it off.
If.
The white truck was now 200 yards from the front gate.
Blade almost stumbled over a root. He recovered and sped toward the willow.
One hundred eighty yards.
Bladfe wished there had been time to detail his intent to Sundance. He knew Sundance would chafe at being left behind, but both of them trying for the truck was unrealistic, increasing their risk of detection. And as the tallest, Blade stood the best chance of accomplishing the maneuver.
One hundred sixty yards.
Damn! His legs ached! Blade ignored the pain, pounding forward, breathing deeply.
One hundred fifty yards.
If he tripped again, he was lost.
One hundred forty.
Blade slowed, slinging the Commando over his right shoulder.
One hundred thirty.
Blade reached the cover of the willow and pressed against its rough trunk, the bark scraping his right cheek.
One hundred twenty.
He would only get one try. If he blew it, they could forget locating the Vikings in the Ministry. If the Vikings were even there.
If again.
One hundred ten.
Blade tensed, watching the tires turn as the white truck neared the willow tree. He estimated the truck was moving at 30 miles an hour.
The white truck reached the spreading willow, was abreast of the trunk for an instant, and then was past the willow, proceeding toward the gate.
Blade was in motion as the truck came even with the willow. He darted around the trunk and dashed the five feet to the road, reaching the rear corner, his legs churning to keep pace, his arms outstretched, his fingers grasping for a purchase. For a second, the outcome was in doubt. And then his fingers closed on the corner, his nails gaining a slight hold on the metal, but it was enough for him to exert his tremendous strength, to tug on the corner, to pull his body that much closer to the rear panel of the vehicle, and there was a door handle in the center of the white panel. His left arm swung out, and he grabbed the handle and held on for dear life.
The strain was incredible. His feet left the road, and for a moment he was hanging by one hand as his right was wrenched from the corner. He clawed at the handle with his right hand, gripping the cool metal, and used his added leverage to haul himself onto the rear fender.
The truck was 80 yards from the iron gate.
Blade glanced up. The roof was eight feet above his head. He steeled his leg muscles and leaped, his arms straight overhead, and his hands clasped the lip of the roof as his knees banged against the rear panel. He grimaced as he clung to the roof, knowing he must keep moving or he would falter and fall to the asphalt. His arms bulged, his neck muscles protruding, as he pulled himself up onto the roof.
Fifty yards from the dull horizontal and vertical iron bars.
Blade rolled to the middle of the roof. Two of his fingers were bleeding and his left knee was throbbing. But he’d done it!
The small white truck was reducing its speed. There was a slight squeaking noise from the cab, from the driver’s side, as if the driver was rolling his window down.
Only four guards were at the gate. The two on patrol, Blade reasoned, must have resumed their rounds.
The truck came to a halt in front of the gate. “Hi, Tim,” said one of the guards. “You’re late.”
“I had to wait for them to get their asses in gear at my last stop,” the driver, evidently the man named Tim, stated. “They couldn’t find a bag of dirty aprons from last night.”
“There’s a note attached to my clipboard,” the guard said. “They want you to pick up a load from Penza Hall.”
“All right,” the driver responded. “But I hope they have it all on the loading dock. I hate going into that place. It gives me the creeps.”
“Just be thankful you’re not in there as a permanent resident,” the guard remarked, grinning.
“Don’t even joke about a thing like that,” Tim said. “I’m not an enemy of the State.”
The guard snickered. He motioned toward the gate. “Open it!” he ordered.
The three other guards obeyed.
Blade, lying as flat as possible on the roof, felt the truck vibrate as it passed the iron gate. He’d made it! He was inside the Ministry of Psychological Sciences!
Now what?
The white truck took a right, along a narrow, tree-lined road. Few people were abroad.
Blade could hear the driver whistling as he drove. What was this Tim picking up at Penza Hall? And why was the driver so leery of the place?
What was it Tim had said to the guard? “I’m not an enemy of the State.”
Was Penza Hall a prison? Hardly likely, if the complex was devoted to the Psychological Sciences. Unless, Blade speculated, Penza Hall was devoted to psychological manipulations instead of simple physical incarceration. He recalled a portion of his Warrior course at the Home, a study of the psychological-warfare techniques employed by the superpowers and others before the Big Blast. The Russians, in particular, masters of mind manipulation, and at extracting important data from recalcitrant subjects. Perhaps Penza Hall was where such “extractions” were made. If so, then Penza Hall might be where the Vikings were being interrogated.
The truck took a left, driving between two high buildings, each over ten stories in height.
Blade peered up at the windows, hoping no one was gazing through them at the road below.
The white truck turned to the right, slowing.
Blade rose on his elbows and scanned the road ahead. They were entering an expansive parking lot. Across the lot was a gigantic structure, only four stones high but encompassing at least five or six acres. Most of the windows in the edifice were dark; only three or four displayed any light. The truck was making for a loading dock stacked with crates and boxes. Two enormous doors, both closed, each large enough to accommodate a troop transport or a tractor-trailer, framed the wall behind the loading dock.