It was a pillbox, an old one, possibly dating back to World War I. It was built into the side of a hill nearby. Maybe at one time it guarded the approach road to the secret base. It was made of cobblestone and mortar and wood, and it looked damn sturdy.
It faced the white hangar, so Hunter would have a good view of the bomber’s approach. If he was able to make contact with the pilot beforehand, he could walk him right in. Plus, if one or two bombs fell short, the thick walls would protect him from harm.
So this is where he would stay and wait for the bomber’s approach.
He had salvaged the last of the porridge and the orange drink from the mess hall and brought this as his meal to the bunker. He also had his flight suit dried and repaired by this time, so he climbed out of the denims for the first time in a while and into the more comfortable speed jeans.
His gun was holding up well too. The ammo was still dry, and a quick cleaning brought the barrel and muzzle up to snuff.
He used the denims as a mattress and pillow and sat down for the first time in a very long time. He ate the hardened porridge and sipped the orange drink. He had the Boomer nearby, turned on with the batteries switched to low.
He positioned himself so he could look out one opening of the pillbox and see the secret air base, look out another and have a clear view of the northwestern sky, the direction from which the air strike bomber would come. Out the third opening he could see the tall, narrow waterfall, its water falling hundreds of feet, still kicking up a perpetual cloud of vapor and spray several miles away. It looked rather peaceful at the moment.
He finished the porridge and drained the orange water. He set the Boomer’s DHF radio to scan and leaned back. The sun was coming through the western opening now and hitting Hunter right in the face. It felt warm, drying. Drowsy.
He tried to fight it, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t stopped in what—seven days? Heroes had to sleep too.
Even dead ones.
Still, Hunter never felt his chin hit his chest, or his eyes begin to close.
He was asleep before the empty cup of porridge hit the floor.
Hunter dreamed many things that long afternoon.
Things that his mind would only allow him to deal with in a sleeping state, things too troubling to come to the surface, even now. One was the fact that he had met several people since arriving in this world that reminded him of people he’d known back in his old one.
Now, in his dream, he met them again briefly. Captain Crunch. Colonel Crabb. Even Wolf, the commander of the destroyer that had picked him up out in the Atlantic. Was it possible that they were here, as different people, but at the same time like the person he knew? He didn’t know, so he began asking each one. But after a while, this became too complicated for his psyche, even for his dream state. So his subconscious urged him to move on.
He dreamed next about swimming in very cold water, even though his hair and hands were on fire. Then he saw the dead horses near the huge red plastic German target again. They were encased in ice, legs sticking up, but now they were breaking through the frost and coming back to life. Then he was back in the Pogo, and feeling that exhilaration of flight running through him for the very first time in this lifetime. Then he was suddenly back in his old F-16, flying the same heart-stopping maneuvers, yet this time, he was over his old base at Cape Cod, back in his ZAP days. Damn, it had been Otis Air Force Base! he just realized. The same place that he’d been brought and questioned soon after appearing in this world.
But the strangest dream of all came at the end. He dreamed a swarm of bees had flown into his left ear and were coming out the right. Their buzzing was far off—but getting louder.
Closer.
Hunter shook himself awake a second later and oddly the first thing he did was grab the rifle and sweep the room.
He was alone, but was still frozen in horror. The sun was gone, it was night. The buzzing, far off, was the American Air Corps coming back to firebomb Germany.
Hunter couldn’t believe it—he’d fallen asleep!
He grabbed the Boomer and turned it on full scan. What he heard was a wave of voices getting stronger, clearer as the hundreds of contrails approached again from the northwest.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Hunter screwed back to the frequency on which he’d spoken with the bomber the night before. But it was empty. There were people talking on just about every other channel but the one he was concerned about—the one that he should have been monitoring all afternoon instead of falling asleep. It was clear.
But to Hunter’s way of thinking, that was a good sign. The omission of voices on that channel might mean his message had gotten through and the air strike was on its way.
He carried the Boomer over to the window and studied the huge air armada scorching the night sky once again with long white tails above his head.
He could see red streaks off to the west—flak rising not quite high enough to affect the swarm. Then he saw blue and green streaks falling through the bomber streams—these were the fighters, their guns full of ammo, going in to attack the flak sites. A series of explosions just over the horizon told him some hits were made. The flak stopped rising after that.
The first line of bombers was nearly right over him now. He checked the Boomer again and found the specified frequency was still silent. He briefly visited the window looking out on the secret base. Everything was still, and the slight wind blowing through the place, gave off an eerie howl.
And beyond, the majestic waterfall was still throwing clouds of mist up into the night sky.
That’s when the Boomer finally crackled with life.
He was back at the window looking out on the bomber stream. He zeroed in on the Boomer’s frequency, then slapped the scramble arm down.
“This is Zebra Delta…are you here?”
“I’m here,” Hunter replied hastily. “Are you my air strike?”
“Yes we are,” the voice came back. It sounded confident, very self-assured.
“You got my coordinates? You got the dope on the target?”
“Yes, we do…”
Hunter was surprised. It seems like his request had been filled to order. But what were they carrying?
“May I ask what your bomb load is, please?”
“We are carrying six eight-hundred-pound bombs, high explosive,” was the reply. “Is that what you asked for?”
Hunter was amazed.
“Yes, it is,” he said, looking up at the second wave of bombers and wondering which one he was talking to.
“Let’s talk this through, OK?” Hunter asked. “You got the map coordinates. Let me give you some landmarks. You come in from the dead west, you’ll see a rise out of a valley. Then the target—it’s a two-runway base with a bunch of support buildings and one big white hangar. Beyond that, there’s the biggest waterfall you’ve ever seen, and after that the flood. OK?”
“OK…”
“Now, line your nose up with that waterfall and put your bombs into the white hanger, then we’re money, get it?”
There was a crackle of static.
“Got it,” came the pilot’s reply, but Hunter thought a moment. Does he really? He searched the next bomber stream, way out, figuring at any moment he would see one plane start to drop down and…
“Zebra Delta? What is your position right now?” he asked the pilot.
“We are approximately one half mile away from target…”
One half mile?
“Jessuzz, what is your altitude?”
“Altitude at 100 feet, coming in from the west…”
Hunter shook his head and then looked west, and sure enough, here was a huge B-24/52 coming in, full engines, smoke billowing, rocking back and forth in the thick air. Right at that instant, Hunter knew the plane was too big, too fast, too low to attempt this mission.
“Jessuzz, you’re way too low!” Hunter screamed into the Boomer, but it was way too late. The huge airplane was bearing down on the targe
t at more than 500 knots.
“Roger,” the pilot continued radioing mindlessly. “Line up our nose on the white hanger and let bomb string walk right up the waterfall…”
Hunter’s jaw dropped. What did the pilot just say?
“No, abort! Abort!” he started screaming again, but it was too late.
The bomber went right over the pillbox. He saw the bomb bay doors open and a string of bombs tumble out. They missed the white hangar by a mile, impacting—all 4800 pounds of them—up the side of the waterfall.
The explosion was tremendous—the waterfall was instantly blasted apart. Tons of rock and dirt were thrown high into the air. Fire and smoke filled the sky. It seemed like the whole mountain came apart, which is exactly what happened. And over the top of the dirt and rock came a tidal wave of water as high as the waterfall had been. It hit the previous mound of rubble first—and kept on coming. It hit half a dozen rolling hills next—and kept on coming. It hit the outside of the base, then the fences and the support buildings and tower—and kept on coming. It swamped the white hanger and tore it right off its foundations.
Then, maybe two seconds after the explosion, the water hit the pillbox where Hunter stood simply transfixed.
And then, for the third time in six days, he found himself tumbling again, out of control, being swept along by the deep, dark water.
Chapter 32
WHEN HUNTER WOKE UP this time he was absolutely, positively convinced he was in Heaven.
The sun was shining. The birds were singing. He was laying in a pool of warm water, some of it trickling over his face. It felt so good against his skin. And there was a beautiful girl standing over him. She looked just like an angel was supposed to look. Golden-red hair, soft skin, almost luminescent. The sun was hitting her in such a way that she even seemed to be wearing a halo.
This is cool, Hunter thought hazily, knowing somewhere deep in his mind that beating the flood three times would have been just too much to ask. So he was dead, for real this time.
At least now he could get some sleep.
But then someone was talking to him, trying to get him to move, but he really didn’t want to move. The water was warm and comfortable and…
“Please!” he heard a voice plead, and this got him to open his eyes again. “We don’t have much time.”
It was the girl standing over him.
Hunter lifted himself up and for the first time got a good look around.
He was in a small stream, one of many that were coursing through a wide, flat, now treeless valley.
But what kind of a place was this? He looked around and saw that the muddy path of destruction stretched for miles. And odd as hell, on the stream banks all around him were the 12 crumpled F-16s. Nearly all of them were sticking nose down into the mud, though a few were flipped belly-up, or resting against downed trees, their noses pointing skyward, as if they were ready to take right off.
Hunter’s eyes almost watered on seeing the airplanes. They were all total wrecks, twisted and battered and in pieces from the water’s incredible force. He and they had tumbled down the same flood together.
Finally he had to look away.
But then he saw scores of other wrecked military equipment littering the soggy valley as well. Tanks, armored cars, helicopters, artillery pieces. They were all twisted and torn and battered and ripped up worse than the F-16s. They all bore the Iron Cross of the German Army.
He stared up at the sun and the young girl again.
“Please,” she was saying again. “We don’t have much time.”
She was cute. Delicate features, petite body wrapped in only a soaked nightgown. But Hunter had to blink twice. Damn, he couldn’t believe he was thinking this, but this girl looked very familiar to him too.
“Please,” she was saying to him, “I will run out of time and then it will be too late.”
Finally Hunter got the message.
He rolled over and finally got to his feet. He was very wobbly, and his hands were scraped and cut But he didn’t think he was badly injured and a quick self-diagnosis confirmed this. And somehow he’d had the presence of mind to strap the rifle onto his back before the waters came, because it was still tied around his neck. He still had his steelpot helmet on too. But everything else was gone.
He shook his head and got his bearings and caught his breath and then looked at the girl who looked familiar to him and asked:
“What are you doing out here?”
But she ignored him. She turned instead and began walking out of the stream.
Hunter followed her and briefly collapsed on the bank. It was now just sinking in—the girl had saved his life. Somehow she had made her way through the devastation to reach him.
“What is your name?” he asked her.
But again she didn’t answer him.
“We don’t have much time,” she said instead. “We have to hurry.”
Hunter got back to his feet, gave his injured ankles a few steps and, though a little woozy, knew he was OK.
Where the hell am I? he asked himself, looking around at the field littered with wrecked equipment again. It was almost as if some huge battle had been fought here. But how? And when? Hunter had no idea.
He pulled the rifle from his back. He checked the chamber—two dry charges were inside.
“Come with me,” the girl was telling him, standing about 20 feet away from him now. “Hurry. I don’t have much time.”
“OK, OK,” Hunter said, trying to stretch some of his aches and pains away. “I’ll go with you.”
With that, the girl started running.
What followed now was a foot race. The girl was running as fast as her bare feet could carry her. At times she looked like she was gliding above the devastated ground, that’s how fast she ran. Hunter tried his best to keep up with her. But no matter how fast he moved, the girl always managed to stay about 50 feet or so ahead of him.
They ran over hills, into valleys, across washed-out riverbeds, and through fields of wheat and corn that had been shorn away.
Finally they topped one hill and Hunter came upon an astonishing sight. Before him, stretched throughout a wide valley, were at least two dozen enormous wrecked airplanes. They were as big as the seajet he’d shot down over Iceland, bigger even. He quickly studied one of them. Inside he could see dead crewmen, still strapped to their seats. Equipment, tools, boots, helmets, and other supplies filled the wrecked cargo holds.
These monsters were obviously troop carriers. And he had no doubt they had been intended to be used in the rumored invasion of the U.S. that Pegg had spoken about. But, just like the devastation he’d seen back in the other valley, no battle had wrecked these airplanes. The flood waters had done it instead.
The girl was standing at the top of the next hill by now, beckoning Hunter furiously. He left behind the graveyard of monster airplanes and scrambled up the hill. But when he reached the top, the girl was not there. And now he was looking down into another valley. This one was full of bodies. Dead soldiers. Thousands of them.
He slid down the hill and made his way over to one clump of corpses. He looked into the eyes of three dead men and realized they were German paratroopers. They were in combat uniform, parachutes still attached to the backsides. They were wearing full equipment belts and ammo loads. There must have been at least 10,000 of them scattered throughout the valley, most floating in the many pools of water the flood had left behind.
He reached inside one man’s pocket and came out with a map. He opened it and saw it was not for anywhere in Germany or Europe, but for the state of Maryland. That was all he needed for proof. These soldiers were obviously connected to those wrecked airplanes, possibly even the advance landing parties for the U.S. invasion. Yet the flood had killed them all too.
Hunter’s stomach was nearly turned inside out by this time. Some kind of animals had already been feeding on the bodies and he imagined what a nightmare this place would be once all the water was finall
y gone and the sun got around to baking all these corpses. He began running again.
The girl was at the top of the next hill by now and yelling to him.
“Hurry! I don’t have much time left…”
It took Hunter 10 minutes to climb out of the field of death.
Finally, he reached the top of the last hill and saw before him a long concrete bunker. Two wrecked vehicles were smashed against its front door. A huge antenna lay crumpled across its roof. Two rings of high concertina wire had once surrounded the structure, indicating that it, just like the hangar containing the F-16s, was probably a very secret place.
But the fences had been washed away. And the front door was wide open. And the girl was standing next to it, beckoning him inside.
Hunter stumbled down the hill, fell once, got up, fell again, and got up again.
He climbed over the two rolls of barbed wire and the wrecked fence and was soon standing at the front door. The girl was inside. Her voice was echoing now.
“Please, look in here, I have to go…” she was insisting.
Hunter stumbled inside. The first thing he saw was a BMW FlyBike, a kind of combination motorcycle and small airplane. He’d seen a few of them around the Circle bases, though they weren’t the transportation of choice in subzero temperatures. They had big motors, loud mufflers, lots of chrome, and a twin set of turbine jets which could move the bike through the air at about 40 knots, pretty fast considering it was an open ride.
Beyond the bike were six boxes. They were made of plastic and wood and each one was broken open at the seal. Hunter examined the first one. Beneath loads of packing paper and straw matting, he found another smaller box inside. It was black and made of lead. It was also very heavy. He managed to lift it out and get it open.
Inside was a bomb.
It was about 30 inches long, maybe seven inches around, and had small wings in the back and a tiny fusing propeller on the front.
But this was not a typical aerial bomb, as even Hunter’s groggy, spinning head could tell him. He lifted the thing out of its case and cradled it on his lap. There was lots of yellow stenciled lettering on its side. Some of it identified the bomb as an Mk-175, low-detonation, high-yield strategic weapon. Low-detonation? High-yield? Hunter almost let the thing roll off his lap. He was that startled.
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