First Strike Read online

  Melnick's brainstorm to base the Force in L.A., right? So where's his man?" Blade

  shrugged. "I don't know. But I was told we could expect him in a day or so." "So we'll ail be together by tomorrow night?" Boone said.

  "Maybe," Blade stated. "We'll have to wait and see."

  "I can hardly wait," Boone commented sarcastically.

  Blade pursed his lips, troubled by Boone's attitude. He had known the

  Cavalryman for years, and he'd never seen Boone betraying such pessimism. The

  Warrior determined to get to the bottom of Boone's odd behavior at the first

  opportunity;

  Its engines whining, the VTOL was slowly settling to the ground 30 yards

  away. The sleek jet was an impressive testimonial to the wisdom exhibited by

  California's previous leaders. After World War Three, after the devastation

  unleashed on the environment, after the country was plunged into turmoil and

  the transportation systems were totally disrupted, those in charge of California

  had decided to concentrate on maintaining their aircraft instead of wasting

  precious resources in an effort to keep their cars and trucks running. Because

  California was so large, and because travel overland was fraught with danger

  due to the proliferation of mutants, looters, and the Raiders, the government of

  California had opted to utilize aircraft as the principal conveyances in the state.

  The two VTOLs were the pride of the California military, and understandably so.

  Modified to carry up to five passengers and outfitted with extra fuel tanks, and

  with their vertical-take-off-and-landing capability, the VTOLs were ideal for flying

  a weekly shuttle service between the Federation factions or making special trips,

  such as this one to retrieve the volunteers for the strike force.

  Boone hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. "I'll never get used to that

  contraption."

  Blade knew what the Cavalryman meant. The development of

  sophisticated technology, with a few notable exceptions, had pretty much died

  out with the war. The VTOLs California possessed, were a throwback to the

  prewar times, to an ancient culture and an antiquated social system. One

  hundred and five years might not seem like a lengthy stretch of time when viewed in relation to eternity, but in the context of the drastic and radical changes inflicted by the nuclear exchange between the so-called superpowers, Blade tended to, view the prewar society as an alien way of life. He had studied the prewar civilization in the Family school, and he had been astonished by the lack of wise leadership, the moral and spiritual emptiness of the people, and the government intrusion into the lives of its citizens, whether that government was

  communistic or socialistic or capitalistic.

  The VTOL landed flawlessly, and was immediately converged upon by the

  ground crew.

  "Do you miss the Family?" Boone unexpectedly asked.

  Blade's mouth turned downward. He wished Boone hadn't reminded him

  of his dearest friends, of the tightknit group he had lived with all his life, of the

  men and women he affectionately regarded as his brothers and sisters. He

  missed several of his fellow Warriors in particular: Hickok, Geronimo, Rikki-TikkiTavi, Yama, and Bertha. "Yes," he replied.

  "I miss Dakota," Boone disclosed. "I miss my buddies in the Cavalry." He

  sighed wistfully. "You're lucky. At least you have your wife and son here inL.A." The mention of Jenny and Gabe made Blade smile. "I guess I am," he

  admitted. The idea of being alone inL.A., of not being near his beloved wife and

  son, was depressing. He silently thanked the Spirit for his good fortune, and

  suddenly he realized what was bothering Boone.

  "Here comes our recruit," Boone said.

  A man was climbing down a ladder from the VTOL. He was slightly under

  six feet tall, slim and wiry in appearance.

  Blade studied the newcomer as the man approached, noting the unkempt

  black hair, the pale, angular features, and the man's clearly bored expression.

  The recruit was wearing ragged brown pants and a faded green shirt. Black

  shoes with holes in the toes covered his feet.

  "I figured as much," Boone muttered. "I bet he bathes about once a

  year." Blade was deeply disappointed. All of the Federation leaders were fully

  aware of the importance of the unit he was forming. All of them had been asked

  to select a top fighter for the Force. Since the Freedom Force would be handling

  extremely hazardous assignments, the Federation leaden were supposed to call

  for volunteers and pick the best of the lot. Was this the best the Moles had to

  offer?

  The Mole reached them and stopped, his green eyes roving from one to

  the other. "Is one of you clowns named Blade?" he asked.

  "I'm Blade," the Warrior responded gruffly.

  The Mole didn't appear to notice. "I'm Spader," he announced. "I was told

  you're the bozo I'm to see."

  "l knew it," Boone quipped. "Why did the Moles send someone with mush

  for brains?"

  Spader instantly bristled "Are you talking about me, Mister?" . "You see any other jackasses around here?" Boone rejoined. Spader clenched his bony fists. "I don't have to take this crap! I was sent

  here to join the Fart Force, or whatever the name of the chickenshit outfit is!" He

  indicated Blade with a jerk of his right thumb. "I know who this yo-yo is," he

  snapped a! Boone. "But who the hell are you?" Blade's right hand lashed out and

  clamped on the Mole's shirt. He effortlessly hoisted the Mole into the air, his right

  arm bulging.

  Spader gawked at the immense Warrior. He swatted at the hand holding

  him aloft, to no avail. "Hey! Let me go, you asshole!"

  Blade's gray eyes became flinty. "Let you go? Sure, I'll let you go!" He

  shoved the Mole from him and released the green shin.

  Spader tumbled onto his back, landing hard on the tarmac, wincing as

  pain lanced his shoulders and hips. He rolled, ready to rise, when steely fingers

  locked onto the nape of his neck and he was hauled into the air once again. "Let

  me go!" he cried angrily.

  Blade started shaking the Mole, and he continued shaking until Spader

  was pleading for mercy.

  "Please! Let me go!" the Mole wailed. "I didn't mean nothing by what I

  said! Honest! Please!" Blade dumped Spader onto the tarmac and stood over

  him. "Shut your mouth!" he commanded. Spader, braced on his haunches,

  glared at the giant. "No one tells me to—" The remainder of his sentence was

  strangled off as the Warrior's right hand seized his throat. He gurgled and

  gasped for air. Blade leaned over the Mole's reddening face. "When I give an

  order, you will obey it immediately," he stated brusquely.

  Spader was trying to talk, but he blubbered inarticulately.

  "I repeat," Blade reiterated. "When I give an order, obey it. Now shut

  your mouth and listen up!" Spader wanted to strike at the Warrior, but evidently

  thought better of the idea. He lowered his right fist, glowering, wheezing but

  calm.

  "Good." Blade loosened his grip and straightened. "You're not to speak

  unless spoken to. Do you understand?"

  Spader nodded, rubbing his sore throat, enraged but unwilling to

  antagonize the Warrior further.

  "You're learning," Blade said. "Now let's get a few facts straight. You're

  here to join the Freedom Force, not the Fart Force
. And since I'm in command of

  the Force, you will do as I say, when I say it, or suffer the consequences. Do you

  follow me so far?"

  "Yeah," Spader croaked.

  "You will refer to me as Blade," the Warrior directed. "Not as a clown, or a yo-yo,

  or an asshole. Should you ever do it again, you'll be in the market for new teeth.

  Do you get my drift?" Spader studied the Warrior's awesome physique. "I get

  you," he declared.

  "Fine," Blade said. "Now stand up."

  Spader scrambled to his feet.

  "How old are you?" Blade inquired.

  "What's that got to do with…" Spader began, then hastily replied,

  "Twenty-seven, sir!"

  "Call me Blade," the Warrior admonished. "Not sir."

  "Yes, si…" Spader stopped. "I mean, yes, Blade!"

  "Why are you here, Spader?" Blade asked.

  Spader appeared puzzled by the query. "What do you mean? I'm here to

  join the Freedom Force."

  "But why you?" Blade pressed him. "Why did the Moles send you? You act

  like you're none too happy about being here."

  "I'm not," Spader confessed.

  "Then why are you here?" Blade repeated.

  "Wolfe asked for volunteers," Spader said.

  "And you volunteered?" Blade asked skeptically.

  "Not exactly," Spader replied. "Wolfe called a meeting of all the Moles. He

  explained about this Freedom Force deal, and that one of us would need to join.

  But when he said the volunteer would have to travel all the way to California,

  there wasn't any great rush to join up.

  "He paused and sighed. "So Wolfe volunteered me."

  "Wolfe selected you to come here?" Blade asked.

  "Yep."

  "And he didn't give you any say in the matter?" Blade questioned. "Nope," Spader said. "I wouldn't be here if he had." Blade's lips

  compressed in annoyance and he stared at the ground. Now he understood! Of

  all the Freedom Federation factions, the Moles came closest to being run by a

  dictator. Wolfe, the Mole leader, was a haughty, arrogant man who ruled the

  Motes imperiously. It would be just like Wolfe to pick someone if he didn't get

  the volunteers he wanted. .

  "May I say something?" Spader ventured to ask.

  "What?" Blade said.

  "I don't want to be here, but I can't go back either," Spader said. "Wolfe

  said I would have to stay here for a year. Is that right?"

  "Each recruit serves for a period of one year," Blade confirmed. "I don't have much combat experience," Spader revealed. "I know this

  Force is going to be flying all over the place, getting involved with more trouble

  than I care to think about. And I want to survive my year here. I want to make it

  back home again." He gazed into Blade's eyes. "I won't give you no more grief.

  Wolfe said we're going to undergo some training. Is that true?" Blade nodded.

  "I'm responsible for your training. We will spend two months preparing for our

  first mission. I want us to function as a precision team, and that will take lots

  and lots of hard work."

  "I'll do what you say,'" Spader said. "My life is in your hands. I didn't

  mean to fly off the handle the way I did. But I was really pissed off about being

  here. I guess I just took it out on you two."

  "We won't hold it against you," Blade said. He nodded at the Cavalryman.

  "This is Boone. He's from the Cavalry."

  Spader and Boone shook hands.

  "I got off on the wrong foot, didn't I?" Spader queried.

  "You could say that," Boone acknowledged.

  "Where's your bag?" Blade asked.

  "What bag?" Spader responded.

  "Didn't you pack some extra clothing? Bring your weapons? Anything?'

  Blade probed.

  "Wolfe said you would supply all that," Spader said.

  Blade was looking forward to the next time he encountered the Mole

  leader. He had a few choice words he wanted to say to Wolfe.

  "So what's next?" Spader wanted to know.

  "We go through that terminal there," Blade said, pointing at the building

  to their rear. "I have a jeep parked in the lot on the other side.

  We'll drive out to our training facility."

  "Where are the others?" Spader inquired. "I was told there would be

  seven of us."

  "There will be," Blade affirmed. "Two more will arrive in L.A. tomorrow

  morning, and another one tomorrow night. I don't know about the last one."

  "Are you sure seven, will be enough?" Spader asked. "I mean, who knows what

  we'll be running up against?"

  "California only has two VTOLs," Blade commented. "Each one can carry

  five passengers. What with seven of us, plus all the gear we might require, seven

  is the maximum number we can include in the Force."

  "You've got all this worked out, haven't you?"

  Blade pursed his lips. "I think so."

  "I've heard about you," Spader said. "Hell. Who hasn't? I know all about

  your rep. I figure I'm in good hands."

  Blade was rather surprised by the Mole's abrupt turnaround. One minute

  Spader was ready to spit nails, the next he was bending over backward to be

  friendly. Either the man was mature enough to own up to a mistake when he

  made one, or he was unstable emotionally and thus might pose a threat to the

  Force.

  "Before we take off, is there somewhere I can take a leak?" Spader asked. "Inside the terminal'," Blade informed him. "To the left."

  "Thanks." Spader hurried toward the structure.

  "Well, the Freedom Force is off to a rousing start," Boone remarked. Blade

  noted the sarcasm in Boone's tone, and he had to agree. Spader was not the

  sort of man he would want to rely on in a firelight.

  The Mole was inexperienced in combat, and Spader resented his coerced

  service in the Force. 'Such a negative latitude would adversely affect his

  performance. Come to think of it, Blade realized, the Cavalryman's attitude

  wasn't much better than the Mole's. Boone would much rather be in Dakota,

  than in L.A.And although the Cavalryman had made a name for himself in the Dakota Territory, and was considered to be fast and exceptionally accurate with

  a handgun, what good would Boone be if his mind was distracted? Boone walked toward the terminal. "Coming?" he asked over his left

  shoulder. Blade sighed and followed;

  Boone glanced at the Warrior's troubled countenance. "Is something

  wrong?"

  "I was just wondering about something," Blade remarked.

  "Like what?"

  "Like why you volunteered for the Force if you didn't want to come

  toL.A.?" Blade inquired.

  "Kilrane asked me to," Boone divulged.

  Blade stared at the Cavalryman. Kilrane was the head of the Cavalry. "He only

  asked you?"

  "No. Kilrane asked for anyone who wanted to volunteer to do so," Boone

  said, "But he told me he'd take it as a personal favor if I volunteered along with

  the others, so he could formally pick me."

  "Why you?" Blade questioned.

  Boone shrugged. "He said he wanted someone he could trust, someone

  who would serve with honor and distinction." Boone shook his head. "For some

  reason, he had this harebrained notion I could fill the bill."

  "But I get the impression you don't want to be here," Blade commented. "I don't," Boone said.

  "Then why'd you accept Kilrane's proposal?" Blade queried. Boone looked
the Warrior in the eyes. "Because Kilrane is my best friend."

  Blade nodded his understanding. The Family Eiders taught that the

  demonstration of loyalty to true friends was one of the higher virtues. But now

  he had two men on the Force, neither of whom wanted to be on it. Two out of

  seven. What about the rest? More to the point, what in the world had he gotten

  himself into?

  CHAPTER TWOGovernor Melnick had ordered a special training facility to be constructed for the Freedom Force north of Los Angeles, slightly to the northwest of Pyramid Lake. The facility would also serve as the headquarters of the Force for all future operations. While the VTOLs would be based on the L.A. airport, a runway and small hangar were built at the facility so the Force could be picked up on a moment's notice. The entire headquarters compound embraced 12 acres and was enclosed in an electrified fence topped with barbed wire and patrolled by regular California Army troops. Occupying the southern section was the runway, a concrete pad 50 yards square. With their vertical-ascent-and-descent capability, the VTOLs did not require a lengthy runway. In the center of the compound were three buildings, actually concrete bunkers positioned in a straight line from west to east. In the middle was the command bunker, Blade's HQ; to the east was the long barracks for the Freedom Force members; to the west was the supply bunker. The northern part of the facility was kept in its natural, wild state and would be utilized for training purposes.

  Blade mentally reviewed the layout the next morning as he stood next to the gate situated in the middle of the south fence. The sun had been up in the sky for an hour. Birds were singing and the breeze was warm.

  "Here they come, sir." Blade grinned to his left at the speaker, one of a pair of regular Army troops assigned to gate duty. "You can call me Blade," he advised.

  "Yes, sir, Blade," the trooper responded. Like his counterpart, he was standing at attention near the swivel bar in the center of the gate.

  Blade stared down the asphalt roadway leading to the facility. A green jeep was rapidly approaching. Inside should be the volunteers from the Flathead Indians in Montana and the Clan in Minnesota. He hoped they would be more enthusiastic about their assignment than Boone and Spader. The jeep slowed as it neared the gate, then braked on the far side. An officer clambered from the vehicle and scrutinized the compound critically.

  Blade resisted an inclination to frown. He recognized the officer—General Miles Gallagher, Governor Melnick's personal liaison with the Freedom Force. Gallagher was a stocky man with brown eyes and a crew-cut brown hair, a bulldog of an officer notable for his tenacity and popularity with his troops. Gallagher had made no secret of the fact he disliked California joining the Freedom Federation, and he was skeptical of the elite unit Governor Melnick was forming. While he had expressed his reservations to Melnick, Gallagher was too good a soldier to go public with his disapproval. His eyes locked on the Warrior. "Morning, Blade," he greeted the giant, cordially but with a cold undercurrent.