Target: Point Zero (9 page)

At that moment, there was a great crash of glass. Three ghosts were going out the window, smashing through the panes, guns raised and dragging Emma with them. Hunter was across the room and out the shattered window in a shot, landing feet-first on a very rickety fire escape. There was another building across the alley—it was a twenty-foot leap away. The silhouettes of the escaped aviators were double-timing it across the roof, pulling Emma along with them. Overhead, a pterodactyl suddenly appeared, screeched, then disappeared. A makeshift wooden ladder, probably placed between the two buildings centuries ago, now lay broken in the alley seventeen stories below him. The escaped fliers had used it to go across to the next roof and then kicked it away.

Hunter didn’t hesitate a moment. With one great push of power, he leapt out from the fire escape and flew across the great divide and onto the next roof. He landed with a grunt, his rifle up and cocked. One of the aviators spun around, a look of utter astonishment on his face. He clumsily pointed his pistol back at him, but Hunter shot it out of his hand. Eleven degrees to the left, he fired a burst into the feet of the man who was dragging Emma. He stumbled badly, a total of five toes blown off. Emma went flying through the air, flapping her arms. Hunter rushed forward and caught her before she went off the roof completely.

Covering her body with his, he rolled again, avoiding a stream of gunfire from the lead aviator. The enemy fliers made the leap to the next building and started firing even before their feet hit the roof. Not a second later, a counter-fusillade of gunfire erupted from the windows of the hotel. It was Orr and his men. They had spotted the Works aviators and were now shooting wildly at them. Taking advantage of this cover, Hunter managed to carry Emma to a protected corner of the flat roof, out of harm’s way. His intent was to leave her there and join the battle—but suddenly his senses began tingling again.

He quickly turned to the west, towards the immense, twin-peaked mountain.

Something was coming over the top…

First one, then two, then six, then twelve dark forms were emerging from the starry murk on the other side of the peaks. Their combined roar was all too familiar—a sound Hunter would never forget. It was a flight of Heinkels, coming over the alp to bomb Clocks again.

But now, unlike the night before, streams of AA fire began rising above Clocks. It was coming from the northern district of Clocks, the place where the military was quartered. The Heinkels were drawing even closer, but now heavy weapons fire was coming up from the eastern edge of the city, and from the center of town, too. Where the hell did Clocks suddenly get all this antiaircraft weaponry? Hunter didn’t know, but it seemed like anyone who had a large gun in the city was now firing at the approaching bombers. Suddenly the night sky was lit as bright as day. Red, orange, yellow, even some greenish-blue tracers, all converging into an area above the city through which the bombers were passing.

The airplanes’ sudden appearance did little to dampen the rooftop gun battle. The Works aviators were slowly moving across the top of the next building, still firing their weapons. Suddenly the air was cut with another sound, this one sharp and thunderous. Hunter scanned the smoky skies—then he saw it. Off to the west, a flying object, bright and fiery. It was moving quickly through the smoke and clouds—and heading right for the roof of the next building, where the Works aviators were. The lights on the bottom of the craft grew incredibly bright as it approached.

What the hell is this?
Hunter heard himself scream into the howling wind.

Then, in the next instant, he knew. It was a helicopter—a big one—coming down out of the clouds to pick up the escaped aviators.

The men from Works saw the copter, too. It went into a hover above the far northeast corner of the next roof. An ancient set of stairs no more than twenty-five feet from Hunter connected the two buildings. Obviously, this was the enemy airmen’s intended route of escape. They could go across to the next building, jump into the helicopter and be gone.

Hunter couldn’t let that happen.

Emma was crying and shaking now, both from fright and the cold. She was squeezing Hunter so hard, it felt like she’d already cracked one of his ribs. He finally disengaged himself from her and moved her even further into the corner. Then he scrambled over to the edge of the roof, his gun cocked and ready. The enemy aviators were slowly making their way along a short, metal railing, ducking and dodging the furious gunfire coming from Orr and his men. Meanwhile the nearby helicopter was stirring up a tornado of wind with its massive rotor blades. Hunter let the enemy airmen continue—his best shot would come once they reached the steps. He brought his gun up and began to set the laser-sighter. But once more, he was distracted, his body suddenly vibrating with his built-in warning system.

Now what?
he thought.

He spun around to see the main force of Heinkels had penetrated the box of furious antiaircraft fire—they were now letting loose streams of bombs onto the center of Clocks. Three of the bombers had broken away from the main group and they were now over Badtown itself. They, too, had opened their bomb bays and were dropping their weapon loads. As Hunter watched in shock, at least a dozen bombs went crashing into the
Shitzenhouzen,
three blocks away. A stream of red and yellow fire erupted from the streets below. It was Orr’s
Volkspolizi
firing at the Heinkels as they roared overhead. One stream of bullets hit the underbelly of the middle airplane. There was a huge midair explosion—a lucky shot had found one of the airplane’s bombs just as it was falling out of its weapons’ bay. The Heinkel was instantly swallowed up in a ball of flame and smoke. There was another explosion—a frightful screech filled the air. Then the Heinkel began coming down.

Hunter quickly flipped over and made it back to Emma just as the huge burning fuselage went over his head and slammed into the building next door. The resulting explosion was so violent, it lifted them high into the air, tossing and turning them over like dolls. They fell, together, still embraced, towards a huge hole in the side of their building. At the very last instant, Hunter managed to snag a thick pipe with his right arm. Still holding the terrified Emma with his left, his quick action prevented them from being blown off the building altogether. The shock wave from the crash hit an instant later—it was tremendously powerful. Hunter did what he did best—he hung on and closed his eyes. Chaos completely engulfed them—explosions, screams, the roar of flames filled his ears. It finally passed over them. The firewind died down and the great ball of smoke went right by them and ascended mushroom-like into the night.

When Hunter looked up again, there was nothing left of the building next door—no aviators, no helicopter, nothing.

All that remained was a massive hole in the ground with the long crumpled tail of the burning He-111 sticking out of it.

The next thing Hunter knew, he was falling again.

Down past the seventeen floors of the hotel, past all the windows with all the freakish acts still going on within. Emma was in his arms, laughing wildly as they fell. The conflagration caused by the downed Heinkel had been spectacular and so close—but Hunter could not feel it. The flames coming from the crash looked real but the heat felt fake.

Interesting…

They came to rest very gently on the sidewalk outside the front of the hotel. The streets were still crowded with pimps, hookers and assorted denizens, but now fire apparatus was speeding through the narrow thoroughfares and firemen running everywhere, adding greatly to the clutter. Alarms were going off—bells, klaxons, sirens. Explosions could be heard in the distance. Two more Heinkels had been shot down in the center of Clocks, another had gone down in the east and two more had plowed into the side of the mountain to the west. The remainder had quickly fled back over the peaks, dogged by AA fire the entire way.

Emma was leading Hunter now, through the crowded streets, past one group of firefighters who were directing hoses filled with milk at the wall of flames. They ducked down one alley that was crowded with a flock of nuns, another was thick with ducks. They ran past the
Shitzenhouzen,
supposedly obliterated in the bombing raid. But half the building was still standing and at the moment, some kind of religious service seemed to be taking place inside.

They finally made their way away from the madness that had gripped Badtown, to a section of Clocks not too far from the
Rootentootzen.
Hunter had a million things he wanted to ask Emma, most importantly how she came to wind up here, in Clocks. But every time he tried to say something, she just put her finger to his lips and giggled.
There will be plenty of time to talk later,
he supposed.

She finally led him into a building that seemed too ornate and out of place for this part of town. It was an apartment house of some kind. They went immediately to the second floor, stopping in front of a door marked number thirteen.

“I hope you like my place,” Emma cooed, fishing around in her skimpy outfit and somehow finding a key.

She handed it to Hunter who put it into the lock and began to turn it. She laid her hand on his and directed his eyes back towards her. Her negligee was gone now—Hunter found himself staring at her lovely naked body.

“Looking is just as good as doing,” she said with a mischievous shiver.

Hunter couldn’t help himself—he reached out to touch her. But quite suddenly, she was soaking wet, as if she’d just stepped out of a bath.

“I just came from a swim,” she explained mysteriously.

“I go to a favorite spot of mine, down at the lake, where it’s really cold.”

Hunter just shrugged and tried to turn the key again. But then Emma bent down and attempted to look into the keyhole.

He asked her what she was doing. She just smiled again, suddenly dried, suddenly back in her flimsy outfit.

“I said sometimes it’s more fun to watch,” she replied inexplicably. “Don’t you think?”

Again Hunter shrugged and turned the key—finally the door opened. He was shivering a bit now, too, anticipating what he and Emma were about to do.

As the door swung open he was astonished to find the dozen pilots of the
Sturmoviks
squadron waiting inside. They were all wearing their green flight uniforms, including helmets and goggles, and lounging about the small apartment as if they’d been there for some time.

Hunter was very surprised to see them.

“What…what are you guys doing here?” he gasped.

The leader of the Russian mercs, the man named Alexander Ivanov, stepped forward and smiled broadly.

“Major Hunter, my friend,” he said. “Have you forgotten about the big gun we must take out?”

I
T WAS SUDDENLY FIVE-THIRTY
in the morning.

The sun was not up yet, and many stars and planets could still be seen in the crystal clear sky overhead. In the background, the nightmarish peaks soared many miles into the sky. A pall of smoke was rising above them, too. It was glowing, as always, lit by the perpetual exchange of gunfire coming from the embattled trenches below.

Suddenly, the air was shocked by the roar of nine powerful piston engines being cranked to life. Nine plumes of smoke mixed with the early fog to create a blue shroud above the tiny airport outside Clocks. Very quickly, nine airplanes—six Fokkers, two Spads and the two-seat Sopwith—began making their way towards the airfield’s only runway. Beneath their wings were fully loaded cannon pods, weapons dispensers and five hundred-pound iron-head bombs. In their cockpits, a total of ten men, each one determined to change the face of battle high up on the mountaintops.

The Spads took off first. Side by side, they jumped into the air with the deft touch of their Russian pilots. Behind them, three Fokkers roared away, the unique triwings rising very quickly into the early morning air. No sooner were they gone when the second trio was off. Behind them, came the Sopwith two-seater. Once again, Hunter was in the pilot’s seat; Orr was strapped into the back.

The
Sturmoviks
did not hesitate in their approach to the lofty battleground. While another batch of aviators might have taken time to form up and collect their thoughts, the Russians went right to work. Once they were all airborne, they put their airplanes into screaming climbs and were soon rushing through the clouds and towards the opening between the two mountains. Being last in line, Hunter slammed the Sopwith’s throttles forward in an effort to catch up to the smaller fighters. But it was no contest. Already, they were out of sight of him.

Pressing the throttle ahead full gear, the Sopwith’s engine screamed in response and began climbing very rapidly. Through the overcast they went, the wind sounding like a woman’s screams as it roared off the twin wings. By the time Hunter broke through the clouds at five thousand feet, the Spads were already turning on the south mountain, and the great gun emplacement halfway up its slope.

Their cannons and weapon-pods erupting in brilliant flashes of yellow and gold, the tiny biplanes brazenly dove on the gun opening, covering it with a flourish of small but lethal explosions. It seemed like they were going to crash right into the mountain themselves—they came that close to the snowy ledge. But they pulled up and then out, their oversized engines screaming as they rose even further into the cold morning air.

The Spads left just in time for the first pair of Fokkers to come in. These two triplanes were outfitted with mighty-midget weapons dispensers; powerful weapons, but not exactly ideal in attacking a rocky enclave. The hundred or so submunitions contained in the dispensers were better adapted for attacks against troops and equipment spread out on level ground. But the Stormers had never read the user’s manual. Their huge engines burning full-out, both triplanes swooped up the cave opening, let their ordnance go at the precisely same instant and then rolled over in a heart-stopping acrobatic loop. The death-defying maneuever served to fling their submunitions loads right into the cave opening, like two bananas going through a hoop. Suddenly the cave mouth was awash in explosions, blue flames and clouds of smoke, punctured by thousands of bits of flying rock. Hunter was astounded. He couldn’t imagine anyone within one hundred yards of the cave opening living through such a vicious barrage.