The Hunters h-1

by Chris Kuzneski

  The horsemen were incredible, but the Black Robes had superior numbers and firepower. What was worse was that the horses, although obviously well trained, were frightened by the Cossack cycles and unwillingly threw off their riders’ aim. In some extreme cases, they threw the riders themselves.

  McNutt, meanwhile, would pop up like a whack-a-mole, target a Black Robe, and snap off a shot before ducking from an angry swarm of bullets slapping the metal wall of the flatbed fence in return. McNutt had to keep sliding from place to place along the wall so they couldn’t get a bead on him.

  Cobb ran to get the Uzi. After checking for the horsemen’s positions, he simply pushed the gun up over the flatbed lip from a crouch, and sprayed bullets at anything in range.

  ‘Give me that,’ McNutt hissed, sliding his empty Steyr across the metal floor. He sounded like a father who was disappointed that his toddler had gotten his hands on some matches. He grabbed the Uzi from Cobb, who gave it up willingly. ‘Let me show you how it’s done.’

  Cobb grinned despite the situation and said quietly, ‘You picked a good team, Papi. A very good team.’ His head snapped back around when he heard Garcia howl.

  He saw the techie on his knees, holding the big engine bowl like Oliver Twist asking for more food. On either side of him were the ‘X’ shaped rotors and what looked like the skeleton of a barber’s chair. It was a simple slat of a seat, with a fuel tank as a backrest, positioned upon three wide-set, metal legs ending in tiny chair wheels. Attached to the front leg was a horizontal footrest bar.

  ‘I’m trying to get the motors and rotors attached,’ Garcia whined, ‘but every time I stand up, they shoot at me!’

  Cobb looked back at the flatbed fence to see McNutt looking at him from a crouch. ‘The Uzi’s running out of ammo, too,’ he reported. ‘And the horsemen are getting routed. A couple more minutes and we’ll be the only ones left.’

  Cobb’s mind raced. Every scenario he played out in his brain ended badly. He and Garcia could try to finish erecting the H-4, but the odds they would complete it in one piece were negligible. Cobb could try his plan without the H-4, but that would only have the Black Robes swamping the train with reinvigorated mania.

  And just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse …

  ‘Jack!’ Jasmine cried. ‘The uncoupled compartment car is up ahead!’

  Cobb didn’t have to look, and Jasmine didn’t have to explain the danger. If they hit the stationary car at this speed, the crash would likely derail them. But if they slowed now, they’d be easy pickings for the Black Robes.

  Cobb could see no alternative. White flags meant nothing to these lunatics. The explorers and villagers would have to fight to their last man, and their last breaths. Cobb shook his head.

  ‘Jasmine, we’re going to need to-’ he started to say, but McNutt interrupted.

  ‘Cobb-’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you, McNutt-’

  ‘No, Jack, look!’

  McNutt stood at the rail, pointing northeast. Cobb blinked in bewilderment. McNutt was standing up straight, and no one was shooting at him. Cobb sprang to his feet and stared off to where his sniper was pointing. And then he saw it.

  Roaring out of the tree line on a sidecar motorcycle were Sergeant Anna Rusinko and Colonel Viktor Borovsky.

  And both were armed with assault rifles.

  65

  McNutt cheered as he watched Anna steer the bike while Borovsky held the AK-47 against his shoulder in the sidecar, targeting and hitting Black Robe drivers as though they were wolves.

  The two had dragged the abandoned bike from a ditch near the village after hauling Black Robe corpses from it. Now they had the remaining Black Robes scattering for cover. Not a one of them charged the new arrivals.

  ‘White, Red, and now Yellow Russians!’ McNutt taunted.

  The others weren’t paying him — or the new arrivals — much attention. Cobb told Jasmine to slow to a crawl to buy time between themselves and the rogue car. He was busy on the flatbed, helping Garcia with the last steps of building the H-4. The only assembly still required for the seven-foot-tall vehicle was the rotor and engine attachments. The footrest had been attached to the two forward legs, the seat at their top, and the spine above, where the rotors were going to be attached. There was no cabin, no tail section. The controls sat on the bicycle-like handlebars that were suspended from the rotor base at the bottom of a periscope-like extension. The whole contraption looked like a skeleton — if a skeleton consisted of a skull, backbone, sternum, two hipbones, a pelvis, and a really long coccyx.

  Cobb left the techie standing on the bucket seat to secure the engine atop the structure while he and McNutt stood on the packing case, lifted the rotors, and settled them into the aluminum tube on top. Jasmine had slowed the train and the side-to-side sway was minimal. With the phut-phut-phut of Borovsky’s weapon echoing along the western side of the train, McNutt lent both hands as Cobb fitted the blades into place.

  ‘So, is this a true helicopter?’ McNutt asked. ‘Not one of those — what do you call them?’

  ‘Gyrocopters,’ Garcia said as he tightened the screws.

  ‘Right,’ McNutt said. ‘Saw a guy fly by in one during survival training in Death Valley. We survived. He didn’t.’

  ‘Nice,’ Garcia said.

  It was the casual chatter of weekend hobbyists, not men fighting for their lives. Cobb jumped from the wooden box and put a quick end to it.

  ‘Finish, Garcia!’ he barked as he ran over.

  ‘Done, done,’ Garcia told him, as he made sure the rotors were secure. That consisted of pushing them one way, then another, and watching for any vertical wiggle around the central axis. The blades themselves were designed to have significant up-and-down flexibility.

  While he did that, Cobb straddled the seat of the H-4. It was plastic to keep the weight down, without padding of any kind.

  ‘Chief, uh … what’s the plan?’ McNutt asked.

  Cobb didn’t answer. His silence was intended as a conversation-ender. A seatbelt was attached to the metal spine of the mini-helicopter. Cobb strapped himself in. ‘Jasmine, after I leave, keep the train slow and kiss that compartment car.’

  ‘Can you spare any eyes on the back of the train?’ she said.

  ‘Garcia?’

  ‘We have an undercarriage cam,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk you through it.’

  ‘Okay, back away, you two,’ Cobb advised Garcia and McNutt.

  Crouching low, the IT man hurried to a corner of the flatbed where he was exposed to gunfire but wouldn’t be beheaded by the spinning blades.

  ‘Which way you going?’ McNutt asked, walking backwards more slowly.

  ‘Where the action is,’ Cobb replied, pointing west.

  McNutt turned in that direction and knelt down on one knee, his arms firmly planted on the lip of the car, his hands steady, his fingers wrapped tightly around his last remaining weapon, which was his own sidearm — a Glock 17 Gen4 nine-millimeter automatic.

  Cobb held a license for single-engine rotorcraft, training he had found useful on a number of missions — not so much for getting into places but for getting out of them. Though he had never flown this particular aircraft, he had selected it because, at least on paper, it didn’t present any unusual challenges. There were only four controls: a starter switch, a switch to engage the rotors, a throttle, and a yaw switch; and one instrument, a tachometer. There were also more redundancies built into this baby than in any grownup aircraft: she had four 10 hp, 125 cc, two-stroke engines. They were connected to the transmission via a single clutch; if one shut down, the others automatically shared the burden to keep the rotors spinning. In theory, the H-4 could fly on a single engine — long enough to set down, anyway.

  The engines revved, sounding like four lawnmowers. The two blades spun in opposite directions to provide counterbalance, rotating for all they were worth.

  McNutt watched as the horsemen rallied to protect the villagers and the train
. Borovsky’s fire had given them that opportunity by driving the Cossack cycles back up the rise to where the hill met the grove. Anna and Borovsky’s bike was racing down between the combatants, taking out Black Robes whenever they could.

  As the rotors raced to full power, Cobb’s survey of the battlefield was suddenly rendered meaningless when he saw a new monster cresting the hill in the middle of the remaining motorcycles. It was a stripped-down Boyevaya Razvedyvatelnaya Dozomaya Mashina combat reconnaissance patrol vehicle, otherwise known as the BRDM. Russia, the Ukraine, and Poland had been crawling with them since the 1960s, and there were rumors that many of them had been confiscated by local authorities and sold to militias to fight the Soviets.

  Of the four-hundred-odd units that had left Russia, fewer than half had been found.

  Like this one, for instance.

  Obviously, the Black Robes had been building their own mechanized brigade in this province, knowing that Rasputin’s body had to be somewhere in the area.

  As Cobb watched the armored, four-wheel toad of a vehicle, the roof hatch opened and Grigori Sidorov emerged. He was holding their Accuracy International AX-50 sniper rifle. Cobb and McNutt both watched helplessly as the man aimed the gun at Anna and Borovsky’s motorcycle. With the H-4 buzzing like a million bees, there was no way to warn them.

  In Cobb’s mind, that left only one option.

  It was up to him to distract Sidorov.

  In a flash, the H-4 rose into the air as if pulled by a string. Cobb gritted his teeth until he got the hang of the controls. Then he turned and faced the armored vehicle.

  Unfortunately, it was not an ideal day for a flight. The wind howled, and strong gusts kept Cobb from getting the height he wanted. He only got up about thirty feet, but it would do. His sudden appearance above the flat car distracted Sidorov enough that the bullet meant for Borovsky’s skull smashed into the front of the motorcycle instead.

  McNutt groaned when the cycle’s front tire exploded. Anna flew over the handlebars and rolled across the hillside, while the sidecar toppled over sideways — smashing, twisting, and bouncing. At some point, Borovsky was viciously tossed aside like a broken marionette.

  Cobb saw it all from his elevated position, and with just a push on the handlebars, he sent the H-4 swooping toward the BRDM.

  At first, the combatants were too shocked by the appearance of the strange, skeletal helicopter to shoot it down, and Cobb took full advantage of the surprise. He sped in and hovered over the Black Robes, directly in front of the BRDM. Cobb remained stationary for only a moment — just long enough to threaten the destruction of Rasputin’s grave — before he accelerated over them and headed toward an imaginary spot in the forest.

  Sidorov gestured broadly, looking left and right as he pointed at the train before disappearing into the BRDM. A moment later the big vehicle stopped and pivoted on its central axis until it was facing in the direction Cobb had flown.

  Then it set off in pursuit.

  Of the remaining Black Robes, a dozen headed toward the slowing train and a half-dozen joined the BRDM to track down Cobb before he could harm their master.

  Garcia stared at the camera footage on his video screen. ‘You’re nearly there, Jasmine. About ten feet … eight … five …’

  She braked, hoping that the last expenditure of momentum would do the trick.

  It did. There was a squeal, a thump, and then a clang as the couplings hooked.

  ‘Beautiful!’ Garcia yelled. ‘Way to go!’

  Half a flatbed away, McNutt swore. A dozen Cossack cycles were tearing back toward the train, and he was the main line of defense. McNutt slammed his palm on the flatbed fence in frustration. He vaulted over the side of the flatbed car.

  ‘Josh!’ Garcia cried, seeing him land and sprint toward the nearest Black Robe.

  McNutt fired two rounds at the ground, each one closer to the front tire than the one before. He was out of range, but hopefully the rider wouldn’t know that. The Black Robe with the empty sidecar swerved a little too quickly and nearly tipped over. He skidded toward McNutt just enough. The gunman was already running at him, right arm stretched ahead, left hand supporting it at the wrist. The Glock spat twice, though the second ‘insurance’ shot wasn’t necessary. The first had made a raw, red hole in the rider’s forehead.

  McNutt ducked and hurried over to snatch the AK-47.

  He kicked off the dead driver and hopped on.

  ‘Okay, you bastards,’ he said. ‘If it’s killing you want …’

  He gunned the engine and tore off across the field at the oncoming Black Robes.

  The remaining eleven Black Robes bore down on him. McNutt grinned in ferocious anticipation at the sight of the arrogant driver who pulled away from the group, the occupant of his sidecar sneering as he carefully aimed his own AK-47.

  McNutt watched the man’s shoulder. Just as it rose, McNutt pulled back the throttle and quickly decelerated. He felt the bullet go by his right ear an instant before he heard the sound of its firing.

  Stupid headhunter, he thought. You should have gone for the chest.

  With leisurely grace, McNutt placed a nine-millimeter slug into the man’s heart. The Cossack driver reacted in surprise as the sidecar occupant’s head snapped back, his chest opening like a broken window. McNutt punctuated the driver’s surprise by putting a Glock round in his ear as he passed.

  The driver flew off the bike as if in slow motion, and the cycle just kept going. So did McNutt — ignoring the driver as he crashed into the ground in an ugly heap.

  There are more where he came from.

  McNutt swung wide and passed to the right of the group, doing what he used to do in the rodeo: he ducked low and far to the side, giving the Black Robes nothing to shoot at but the bike. They were surprised to see him vanish and held their fire just long enough for him to speed into a protective thicket. When they recovered and turned to pursue, McNutt was upright again. He swung the motorcycle to its side, aimed through an opening, and took down a pair of Black Robes.

  Sidorov had heard the gunfire coming closer — not toward the train, where it was supposed to be going. He looked back through the slotted window of the BRDM and saw the enemy, who was obviously an experienced warrior and sharpshooter, pick off three more cyclists.

  Sidorov sensed it was time to make a stand. Cursing the incompetence of his men, Sidorov stared angrily at his two Black Robe assistants — one behind the wheel and one beside the driver. He knew what lay ahead. He knew what had to be done.

  ‘The grenade launcher,’ Sidorov said. ‘Give it to me.’

  66

  McNutt pulled up to where Anna was cradling Borovsky’s body. McNutt only had a few rounds left in the automatic. He would have to get a weapon from the Russians.

  Anna looked at him with certainty, her face unmarked by tears.

  ‘There’s no blood on his teeth,’ she said in Russian. ‘I don’t think he has any major internal injuries.’

  McNutt shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t speak Russian.’

  ‘He …’ Anna said in halting, heavily accented English. ‘No dead.’

  McNutt could see that Borovsky was breathing, albeit raggedly. The gunman looked back to where the train had stopped in front of their old compartment car and where the villagers were swarming over the crashed and toppled Black Robe motorcycles he had dealt with. The horsemen had dismounted and had effectively circled their wagons using abandoned bikes. McNutt turned back to Anna and started talking rapidly.

  She looked confused, but then a hand touched her cheek. She looked down to see Borovsky gazing up at her.

  ‘The forest does not grieve for the loss of a single tree,’ he said.

  ‘Quiet,’ she laughed in relief. ‘You’re not going to die. Not yet.’

  McNutt did a somewhat elaborate mime to convey what he wanted to tell her.

  ‘Leave him,’ he said, pressing both palms toward the ground. Then he pointed at the train, made a cradli
ng gesture. ‘The villagers will take care of him.’ He pointed at himself and Anna. ‘We have to take out that bastard.’ He indicated the armored car, crashed his fists together, then threw open his fingers, trying to convey that the vehicle must be destroyed.

  ‘He makes a good point,’ the colonel grinned, grimacing. ‘Go. I will be fine.’

  Her face cleared, and she nodded at McNutt. She laid Borovsky’s head down tenderly, then grabbed an AK-47 and approached McNutt’s motorcycle.

  ‘Let us go,’ she said in English.

  He nodded, unholstered the only specialized weapon he still possessed, and took the AK-47 from her.

  ‘You drive,’ McNutt said.

  Cobb laughed. Not at the Black Robes. The Black Robes were deadly, dedicated, and unafraid. But as soon as he crossed the grove, he had them at a very distinct disadvantage. In order to give chase, the Black Robes would have to follow a winding trail through the dense forest or trample through the thick underbrush. The gaps in the trees would give them only brief opportunities to take clear shots.

  That is, if Cobb could navigate the H-4 through those same narrow gaps.

  If the rotors clipped the nearby branches, the Black Robes would be the least of his worries.

  Shots popped. Even over the hum of the engines, Cobb heard them whiz by. The air was buzzing with projectiles. And up here, an accidental hit would kill him as surely as a purposeful one. Any loss of control would surely send him careening into the trees. He rose above the canopy, but the fierce wind made it virtually impossible to control the light H-4 at that altitude. Cobb wasn’t susceptible to vertigo or motion sickness, but the rush of air against his face made him wish he had goggles.

  Dumb oversight, he told himself.

  He dropped back into the forest, the Black Robes still in pursuit.

  The first casualty was the lead motorcycle. Determined to be the ones responsible for taking out the aircraft, the driver took the motorcycle off of the beaten path and plowed through the forest in a beeline toward Cobb. Gnarled roots and exposed rocks nearly bounced the rider from the sidecar as low branches and saplings sliced into the driver’s cheeks and forehead.