The driver ceased whistling.
Blade lowered his head, waiting with baited breath as the truck braked alongside the loading dock. He heard a door slam and risked a look.
The driver, a lean individual in jeans and a blue jacket, was ascending the ramp to the loading dock, a tablet in his left hand. He walked to the right of the two immense doors, up to a small metal door. He reached up and pressed a button encased in the brown wall.
Blade detected a faint ringing from within the building. He gazed at the structure, attempting to determine the material used in its construction.
The brown wall appeared to be a form of stone, but he doubted stone was the material used. Was it a plastic designed to simulate the appearance of stone? Or was it a substance the Soviets had developed since the Big Blast?
The small door suddenly opened, and a brawny soldier stood in the doorway. “Yes?” he demanded.
The driver pointed toward his truck. “They told me at the gate you have a pickup.”
The guard glanced at the white truck. “Sure do. Wait right here.” He started to turn, then paused. “On second thought, why don’t you come with me?”
Tim fidgeted nervously. “Do I have to?”
The guard grinned. “Afraid so. There’s about eight or nine bins. I’m not going to lug it all down here by myself.”
Tim shrugged. “Then let’s hop to it.”
The guard and the driver disappeared inside.
Blade saw his chance. He rolled to the right and dropped from the roof, alighting on his hands and feet, his arches stinging from the impact.
No one else was in sight.
Blade stood and headed for the ramp. As he did, he noticed the sign on the side panel of the white truck: CENTRAL LAUNDRY. A laundry truck?
The Ministry sent its soiled garments and whatever to another establishment to be cleaned? Why not clean them on the premises?
Perhaps because doing so would entail a permanent cleaning staff at the Ministry, and such a staff would present a security problem. What was the old saying? Loose lips sink ships? Considering the security clamped on the Ministry, the higher-ups undoubtedly wanted to minimize the presence of non-essential personnel. He reached the ramp and raced up to the loading dock.
A crack of light rimmed the small door.
Blade jogged to the door and halted, unslinging the Commando. The door was slightly ajar! When the guard and driver had entered Penza Hall, they had failed to push the door closed! Maybe because they would be returning with their arms laden with laundry. He used his left hand to ease the door open.
A gloomy, deserted hallway was on the other side.
Blade ducked through the door and flattened against the left-hand wall.
The hallway ended at a yellow door 20 yards away. Other doors lined the hallway, four on the left, three on the right.
There was no time to lose! The guard and the driver might return at any moment!
Blade reached the first door on the left. It was open, revealing a spacious chamber filled with stacks of wooden crates and cardboard boxes.
The yellow door at the end of the hall started to swing open.
Blade slid into the storage chamber and hid behind a stack of crates as the hallway filled with a peculiar squeaking.
“…three more loads,” said the voice of the guard.
“Thanks for doing this,” stated the driver. “Rostov always makes me go up and get it by myself.”
“Rostov is a prick,” the guard stated.
Blade heard the metal door open, and he padded to the doorway and risked a peek around the corner.
The guard and the driver were pushing white bins overflowing with unclean clothing and linen. The squeaking was emanating from the tiny black wheels on the laundry bins. They passed outside, and the metal door eased almost shut.
Blade turned to the left and sprinted down the hallway to the yellow door. The door opened onto a flight of stairs. He hesitated, glancing down.
The stairs descended several levels below ground, as well as climbing to the stories above. Which way to go? The guard and the driver would be going up. So he went down, taking two steps at a stride, constantly surveying the levels below for any hint of activity. He halted on the first landing, pondering. If the Russians did hold the Vikings in Penza Hall, on which floor would the Vikings most likely be detained? Surely not on one of the upper floors, where windows were a tempting escape route.
Underground would be best.
Move! his mind shrieked.
Blade hastened below. It was close to dawn, and the corridors would probably be crammed with workers once the day shift arrived. Finding the holding cells quickly was imperative. He decided to begin at the bottom and work his way up. The magnitude of his task bothered him. Penza Hall was enormous. He couldn’t possibly cover all of it before daylight. He reached the next landing, kept moving.
Far above him a door scraped open.
Someone else was using the stairs!
Blade increased his pace. Three steps at a leap, he hurried to the lowest level.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs above, echoing hollowly in the confines of the stairwell.
Blade reached the bottom of the stairwell and found two yellow doors.
He tried one knob, and was gratified when it twisted and the door jerked wide. Gratified until he saw what awaited him.
A Russian soldier.
Chapter Fifteen
Sundance was annoyed. He resented being left behind, but he was too professional a Warrior to disobey his orders. So he waited, concealed in the weeds near the large oak, watching the four guards at the gate. He had covered them with the FN 50-63 when the white truck had stopped, but the guards hadn’t seen Blade. His respect for the Warrior chief had ballooned; only an idiot or a dedicated, courageous man would have attempted such a perilous strategem. The idiot because he wouldn’t know any better. The brave man because the mission was of paramount importance, and the danger was eclipsed by an exalted ideal, the ideal of serving others, of saving lives, of placing a priority on the welfare of the many and rendering any sacrifice necessary. And Blade wasn’t an idiot.
The eastern sky was growing lighter and lighter.
Sundance had caught a glimpse of Blade’s maneuver, and had marveled at the speed, strength, and daring displayed. He knew Blade viewed this run to Philadelphia as critical to the Family’s future. If an alliance could be forged with the Vikings, the Soviets would be defeated that much sooner. If the Vikings weren’t receptive to the idea, the Family faced the prospect of a prolonged conflict with the Russians. By finding the Vikings and liberating them, Blade might save untold millions from the totalitarian Communist regime, might restore sweet liberty to the land.
There was a commotion to the right.
Sundance craned his neck to see better.
Two more guards were approaching the front gate, patrolling along the base of the wall. They had stopped, and were staring at the line of trees, AK-47’s in hand.
Someone was shouting.
The two guards began walking across the field toward the trees.
What was happening? Sundance wondered.
He found out.
Captain Georgü Bakunin emerged from the woods, yelling in Russian, hurrying up to the two soldiers. They conversed for a few seconds, and Bakunin showed them something he drew from his pocket.