Houston Run, page 19
part #12 of Endworld Series
“The Prime Complex,” Blade stated.
Roger did a double take. “The Prime Complex? Now I know you’re insane!”
Blade hefted the Gaskell in his right hand. “Move it.”
Roger eased the stick to the right, and the copter responded smoothly.
Hickok, leaning on a stack of boxes for support, gazed out the canopy at the sprawling metropolis, fascinated. He could see dozens of other aircraft flying over Androxia. “We should get us one of these,” he said to Blade. “I’d love to take one for a spin now and then.”
“I don’t know if that’s a wise idea,” Blade commented.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Your driving is bad enough,” Blade said. “I don’t know if I’d want to go flying with you at the controls.”
“May I ask a question?” Roger interrupted.
“What?” Blade said.
“Why are we going to the Prime Complex?”
“To destroy Primator,” Blade divulged.
Roger gaped at the giant in stark astonishment. “Destroy Primator?” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible!”
“Why? Doesn’t the Prime Complex have a heliport?” Blade inquired.
“Of course it does,” Roger responded. “But you must have a special security clearance to land there. Otherwise, you’ll be shot down.”
“Have you ever landed there?” Blade asked.
“Dozens of times,” Roger admitted. “But I always had a clearance.”
“So just pretend you have one this time,” Blade advised.
Roger shook his head. “It will never work.”
“Give me the layout of the roof,” Blade ordered. “I know Primator is on the Sturgeon Level, the top floor. How does one get from the roof to Primator’s floor?”
“The heliport is in the middle of the roof,” Roger said. “It’s a bear to land on sometimes because of the winds. The Complex is two hundred ninety-nine stories high.”
“I know,” Blade said.
“At that height, you have updrafts and crosscurrents and wind sheer to contend with. I hate landing there,” Roger mentioned.
“You don’t have any choice,” Blade noted.
“And what are you going to do if I don’t?” Roger queried. “Shoot me?
The copter would crash, and you’d die too.”
“I wouldn’t shoot you while we’re in the air,” Blade stated. “I’d wait until you landed, and then I’d add that extra nostril.”
Roger frowned. “There’s no way I can get out of this, is there?”
“No,” Blade averred. “Your best chance to survive this alive is to cooperate with us fully. Now tell me more about the roof on the Prime Complex. You said the heliport is in the middle. How do you reach the Sturgeon Level from the roof?”
“By going down,” Roger revealed. “There’s a flight of stairs on the east side of the roof, and you have to go through a door to reach the stairs.
That door is always locked. It has to be opened from the inside.”
“How many guards?” Blade asked.
“None.”
“None?” Blade repeated skeptically.
“Who needs guards two hundred ninety-nine stories up?” Roger rejoined. “Besides, they have something better than guards.”
“Like what?” Blade questioned.
“Like four defensive emplacements, one on each corner of the roof.”
Roger disclosed. “They function automatically once activated.”
“What type of defensive emplacements?” Blade inquired.
“Lasers at the northeast and southwest corners, and heat-seeking missile-launchers at the southeast and the northwest,” Roger informed them.
Blade stared at the bustling city below. “Are there any other conduits between the roof and Primator’s floor? An air shaft, anything like that?”
“There’s the mail drop,” Roger said. “A big metal chute.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s a chute for depositing mail in,” Roger explained. “It’s used primarily for classified rush communiques, for urgent messages and dispatches which can’t be sent through the postal service, relayed over the phone, or supplied through a computer.”
Blade recalled the instructions Primator had given to the Superior in the audience chamber. “INSTRUCT INTELLIGENCE TO INTERROGATE THEM THOROUGHLY. I WANT THE DATA OBTAINED RELAYED TO ME IMMEDIATELY.” Would Primator want such data delivered by a courier copter instead of through normal channels? “And this mail chute connects directly to Primator’s floor?”
“As far as I know,” Roger said. “It’s right next to the heliport.”
“There’s no other shaft of any kind?” Blade quieried.
“Not that I know of,” Roger responded.
The mail chute sounded promising. Blade hoped the chute was linked to Primator’s internal circuitry somehow, although he considered it to be unlikely. How could a computer, even a thinking computer, read its own mail? Still, he shouldn’t put anything past Primator.
“Is that what I think it is?” Hickok inquired, moving between the two chairs and pointing straight ahead.
Blade glanced up.
There was no mistaking the Prime Complex. As the highest structure in Androxia, the grand edifice reared above the rest like a mountain over a cluster of molehills. In the bright sunlight, its golden radiance was enhanced. The Complex was undeniably magnificent, awe-inspiring, splendid beyond measure.
A small black speaker in the center of the instrument panel suddenly crackled to life. “Androxia Express Number Three, this is the Central Air Traffic Control Tower. You are deviating from your delivery schedule, and you are not conforming to your prescribed flight path. You are also about to enter restricted air space. Explain immediately.”
“I told you so,” Roger commented, grabbing a headset lying on top of the instrument panel. He hastily aligned the headset over his ears and mouth. “What do I say?”
“Tell them you are under orders to deliver an urgent message to Primator,” Blade directed.
Roger reached out and flicked a silver toggle on the instrument panel.
“Air Traffic Control, this is Androxia Express Number Three. What’s the problem? I am under orders to deliver an urgent message to Primator.”
“Negative,” the speaker cracked. “We have no record of any security authorization for you to land on the Prime Complex. You will abort and return to Central Field immediately.”
Roger flicked off the toggle. “Now what, mastermind?”
“Tell them you received your security authorization at the Intelligence Building,” Blade instructed. “Say you’re carrying the results of the interrogation of the Warriors.”
Roger’s forehead creased in perplexity, his O.D. gleaming. He turned on the silver toggle. “Air Traffic Control, I don’t understasnd any of this. I was handed my security clearance at Intelligence. I was told this must reach Primator promptly, and I was the only one on the helipad at the time. I overheard something about the interrogation results of some Warriors, if that makes any sense. But if you want me to abort, I will do so right away.
Please check and confirm.”
There was a slight pause.
“One moment,” Air Traffic Control said.
Roger switched off the toggle.
“If those jokers check with Intelligence and learn we busted out,” Hickok mentioned, “the jig is up.”
Blade looked at Roger. “Those missiles and lasers on the roof. Will they be activated if we try to land?”
“I don’t know,” Roger said. “It depends on whether they believed my story. They might hold off while they’re checking.”
“Then land! Now!” Blade commanded.
Roger grit his teeth and pulled on the stick, sending the copter into a steep climb, zooming toward the top of the Prime Complex.
“Wheeee!” Hickok cried in delight.
Blade’s muscles tensed as the helicopter swooped upward, closing on the roof. They were approaching from the southwest, and he could see a bulky cannonlike affair, obviously one of the large lasers, perched on the southwest corner. Even as he watched, the barrel of the laser began to shift, to move in their direction.
Hickok had also noticed. “They’re gettin’ our range.”
“Faster!” Blade urged.
Roger pushed the helicopter to its limit, angling even higher. “If we can reach the heliport, we might be safe temporarily,” he remarked. “I don’t think they’ll fire at us while we’re on the roof. There’s too great a risk of an explosion. They’ll probably wait until we lift off again.”
“An explosion from what?” Blade asked. “This copter? I doubt it would put much of a dent in the roof if it’s as sturdy as the rest of the Complex.”
“Not from the copter,” Roger elaborated. “From the refueling tank.”
Blade leaned toward the pilot. “What refueling tank? You didn’t tell us about any refueling tank.”
“Every heliport has a refueling tank nearby,” Roger told them. “Fighting these thermal drafts can make a chopper use up its fuel real fast. The refueling tanks at each heliport are for emergency refueling.”
The courier copter was almost to the roof of the Prime Complex.
Blade’s gaze was glued to the laser. The weapon was continuing to swivel, slanting lower, its barrel resembling a gigantic, elongated tube, tracking the path of the chopper.
“Androxia Express Number Three!” the speaker barked. “You will abort immediately and return to Central Field!”
“Up yours!” Roger muttered.
The chopper swept over the rim of the roof, streaking past the laser on the southwest corner, diving for the heliport.
“We made it!” Roger shouted excitedly.
The helicopter alighted on the heliport.
Blade handed his Gaskells to Hickok, then rose and ran to the sliding door. He yanked the door open and leaped from the chopper, landing on his hands and knees on the concrete heliport. The wind from the main rotor tousled his hair. He saw the metal mail chute to his left. In front of him, about 30 yards from the heliport, was the large oval refueling tank.
To the east, to his right, was the steel door to the stairs.
Move! his mind shrieked.
Blade scrambled to the northern edge of the heliport and dropped to the roof. He circled to the left, to the metal chute. The mail chute was square, about five feet in height, not more than ten inches by ten inches. It was labeled with the word MAIL. He grabbed a small handle near the top, and the door to the chute swiveled open. Moving swiftly, he removed two hand grenades from his right front pocket. He hooked the little finger of his left hand in the door handle to keep the chute door from closing, then quickly pulled the pins and deposited the grenades in the mail chute.
Move!
Blade released the door and whirled, racing toward the refueling tank, mentally ticking off the numbers.
Ten-nine-eight.
Blade pulled another grenade from his pocket as he ran.
Seven-six-five.
He halted, wrenching the pin loose.
Four-three-two.
Blade hurled the grenade with all of his prodigious strength at the fuel tank, then spun toward the chopper.
There was the retort of a muffled explosion from under the roof, and the entire top of the Prime Complex seemed to sway, the roof vibrating violently as smoke billowed from the mail chute.
Blade nearly lost his footings, but he forced his pumping legs to respond, to keep going, racing for the helicopter. He vaulted onto the concrete landing pad, making for the inviting open door. He was only seven feet from his goal when the oval fuel tank detonated. Blade felt an invisible wave of force slam into his back, and he was lifted from his feet and hurled against the copter, sprawling over the lip of the cargo door. He caught a glimpse of a flaming ball spiraling heavenward, and then strong hands gripped his shoulders and he was abruptly hauled into the helicopter as the chopper rose several feet and sped toward the south side of the Prime Complex.
Another tremendous blast rocked the roof.
Blade, on his left side on the floor, saw Roger struggling with the stick as the craft bounced and shook. A brilliant streak of light flashed past the cargo door, and he realized one of the roof lasers had opened up.
The helicopter suddenly banked to the left and dived, plummeting over the south rim of the edifice.
Blade could still see a portion of the roof, and he saw a sheet of red and orange erupt skyward as yet another explosion shattered the southern rim.
Roger was laughing inanely. The chopper leveled off, swinging wide to the west of the Complex.
Blade slowly stood. The top of the Complex was engulfed in flames.
Hickok was lying on the floor near the boxes, several of which had fallen on him when the copter descended. He pushed the boxes from him and rose. “I knew it’d be a piece of cake.”
Blade closed the cargo door, then moved to the front and sat down across from the pilot.
Roger glanced at the hulking figure in the black vest and the fatigue pants. “Thanks.”
“For what?” Blade asked.
“I wouldn’t admit it to myself,” Roger stated, “but I’ve wanted to pay them back for a long time! Telling me I couldn’t get married! The sons of bitches!”
Hickok came up behind Blade’s seat. “How would you like to live somewhere else, somewhere you could marry any woman who’d say yes?”
Roger looked at the gunman. “Are you putting me on?”
“Nope,” Hickok assured the pilot. “We’ll take you there if you’ll help us get out of Androxia.”
“I can help,” Roger said. “If I stay as close to the ground as possible, radar won’t be able to pick us up. They might not find us.”
“What about your blasted disk?” Hickok questioned.
“They can track me with that, all right,” Roger said.
Blade rose, drawing his right Bowie. “Don’t move.”
“What are you doing?” Roger inquired nervously.
Blade leaned over the pilot, examining the edge of the Orwell Disk. He found a minute crack between the disk and the flesh on the right side and gingerly inserted the tip of his Bowie. “Brace yourself.”
Roger, his knuckles white as his fingers clutched the stick, blanched.
Blade’s right arm bulged.
Roger flinched, his mouth contorting in torment.
There was a loud, squishy popping noise, and the Orwell Disk plopped from Roger’s forehead into Blade’s left palm. A trickle of blood seeped from the circular identation left in Roger’s forehead.
“Did you remove the damn thing?” Roger asked hopefully.
Blade held the disk out for Roger to see.
Hickok uttered a derisive snort. “If the blamed things are that easy to pry off, why didn’t you take it off yourself?”
“The penalty for removing an O.D. is death,” Roger replied.
Blade handed the Orwell Disk to the gunman. “You know what to do with it.”
Hickok nodded. Seconds later, the disk was sailing out a narrow opening in the cargo door.
“I’m in your debt for this,” Roger said to Blade. “I’ll do my best to get us out of here.”
“First things first,” Blade remarked.
“What do you mean?”
Blade peered out the canopy at the buildings zipping past. “Where would the Superiors take a mutant to be neutered?”
Chapter Eighteen
“What do you want?” Lynx asked the Superior, doing his best to imitate the floor supervisor’s voice. Tom had been the same size, but his voice had been slightly higher.
“I want to check on your new arrival,” the Superior said.
“New arrival?” Lynx repeated, wondering if the android meant him.
“His name is Lynx,” the Superior stated. “We brought him over early this morning, before you arrived. I dropped his dossier on your desk, on your Incoming tray. But with all the paperwork on your desk, I was concerned you might not see it.”
“I saw it,” Lynx lied.
“This one is a troublemaker,” the Superior mentioned. “If you require guards, I will have a detail posted.”
Lynx nodded toward his former room. “We won’t need guards. He’s locked up safe and sound.”
The Superior stared at the door to the room. “I’d like to see him.”
“You can’t!” Lynx blurted out.
Melody anxiously licked her lips.
The Superior studied the feline mutant. “Why can’t I see Lynx, Tom?”
“Because…” Lynx responded hastily. “He did give us some trouble when we tried to feed him, and he had to be sedated. He’ll be out for four, maybe six hours.”
The Superior nodded knowingly. “I knew he would be a problem. I will order a guard detail posted, and no one will be permitted in the room other than yourself and Melody.”
Lynx nodded enthusiastically. “That’s an excellent idea, now that I think of it. Don’t let anybody in his room. He’s too dangerous at that.”
“Report to me if he creates another disturbance,” the Superior ordered.
“Without delay,” Lynx responded.
The Superior wheeled and walked away.
Lynx headed for the stairwell, Melody on his right side. “Who the hell was that?” he whispered.
“WW-60,” Melody answered. “He handles administrative coordination for this section.”
“Do you think we fooled him?” Lynx queried.
“If we hadn’t,” Melody replied, “we’d be in custody right now.”
They walked to the stairwell door, deliberately conveying a casual air, but once in the stairwell they increased their pace, speeding up the steps as rapidly as their legs would carry them. They reached the door to Floor 45 without mishap.
Lynx hesitated, his left hand on the knob. “How do we play this? Won’t we be suspicious if we march on in and ask to see my buddies?”
Melody reflected for a minute. “What are their names?”
“Gremlin and Ferret,” Lynx said.
