Target: Point Zero

by Maloney, Mack;

  And now he was in space.

  It was this thought alone that was driving Hunter faster than the five hundred and two cubic-inch engine under his truck’s hood. Big as the place was, he’d not been able to find any jet fuel for his G-5 anywhere in Star City—even worse, he had wasted many hours in trying. He did, however, find this truck, with all its stale gasoline, and had laid claim to it immediately. That had been two days ago. He’d been driving like a madman ever since.

  He’d only been a few hundred yards away from the pad when the Zon went up—he’d emptied a clip from his M-16 into it as it rose into the heavens. But if he had caused any damage to the damn thing, he’d found no evidence of it later. The shuttle went straight up and then over, just like it was supposed to, quickly disappearing from his view. It was a flawless launch and now he had no doubt that the Zon was up there, somewhere, traveling around the earth, carrying at least one pair of eyes that were looking down on the battered planet and thinking of more insidious ways to fuck it up.

  But in firing his M-16 at the launching Zon, Hunter had had more in mind than just shooting it down. By tracking the trajectory of his bullet stream against the trajectory of the rising spacecraft, he’d been able to calculate the Zon’s acceleration, its rate of climb, its angle of flight and apparent attitude, and hence, its expected point of departure from Earth’s atmosphere and its insertion into orbit. From this, Hunter had determined the Zon’s probable orbital status and flight path. If he had added everything up correctly, the Russian shuttle was 127.550 miles above the earth, flying an orbit that brought it roughly fifty-one degrees above the equator and forty-two below.

  From all this, he’d come up with a coordinate, a spot on the map he’d termed Point Zero. It was located more than two thousand miles west of Star City, somewhere deep in the Swiss Alps. From this place, he’d determined, he’d be able to see the Zon go over as many as seventeen times in one clear twenty-four-hour-period, including dusk, night or even early daylight, if he could get high enough, at the right angle and know exactly where to look. In that was born his current plan. If he could get to Point Zero, and take these observations, or even see the Zon go over just once, Hunter hoped he’d be able to learn something very important about the spacecraft: when it would be coming back down to Earth—and where.

  If all this was made known to him, then he’d vowed to be on hand wherever the Zon landed, and personally deal with Viktor, once and for all.

  It seemed like a fool’s quest though.

  The two thousand-mile dash in the beat-up Benz tanker alone qualified for some degree of madness, never mind expecting to find a near-mythical spot from which he could look into outer space.

  But Hunter was always doing things like this. His intellectual capabilities were beyond quantum, his adventuresome spirit more intense than anyone who’d passed before. He was, no argument, the best fighter pilot who’d ever lived. He was possibly the best military strategist to ever come along as well. His mind was not simply some kind of an organic supercomputer: it corrected supercomputers. His ability, in flight, to anticipate the realities of the human-combat-flying experience was eerie. He knew trouble was coming anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes before it actually arrived, a rather frightening talent. But most importantly, he was also a cosmically lucky man: he’d fought in nearly a dozen armed conflicts in the last five years—and had come through all of them with hardly a scratch. All the smarts in the world couldn’t explain that.

  But his goals were also immense. He wanted no less than a world in which every human being was able to make his own decisions and forge his own destiny, without interference from demagogues and power-mad personality freaks bent on fucking it up for everyone else. Five years of hard-fought combat and intense intrigue had finally brought a somewhat stable state of affairs to his beloved American continent. Just how long the export version of this noble cause would take was unknowable.

  Two months before, after receiving an urgent call for assistance from the countries of Southeast Asia, Hunter had organized the large air fleet of C-5 Galaxy cargo jets, outfitted them into combat aircraft and had led them clear around the world to once again come to the defense of a struggling Vietnam. That war ended just a week ago. His comrades, as well as the majority of the air fleet were still there, keeping a shaky peace. When Hunter discovered a homing device that would lead him to Viktor, he’d outfitted it on one of the C-5s and hours later, found himself in Star City. After the Zon launch, anyone left on the ground got out of town real quick, because the place was deserted when Hunter began his search for jet fuel. Finding none, he intentionally wrecked the C-5 on the airport’s longest runway, blowing large craters in it and leaving it fouled for some time to come. At least he knew the Zon would not be coming down there.

  So now here he was—driving across the endless barren landscape, growing cold, growing tired, getting hungry, just driving towards Point Zero, from where he could plot his next move. And like many of his important journeys in the past, he was taking this one alone.

  At last, the truck reached the bottom of the treacherous mountain roadway and now settled itself onto a long stretch of absolutely straight highway. If Hunter’s recall of the area was correct, the road would run like this now for the next one hundred and forty-eight miles.

  With this in mind, he pressed down on the accelerator with even more gusto, raising the big truck’s speed over one hundred ten mph.

  He still had many miles to go before he could sleep.

  Hunter thought he was dreaming when he first saw the Alps.

  One moment, he was rolling along the frozen, barren plain—the next, the mountains were suddenly there, rising out of the haze on the western horizon. These peaks were much higher, much steeper than what he’d been schlepping over the past two days. Like teeth on a massive, snowcapped jigsaw, they stretched in both directions as far as the eye could see.

  Hunter tried to conjure up a map of the region in his head. This was probably the Zillershausen Alpen, he figured, the first line of western Alps. This meant he was somewhere in central Austria, about one hundred fifty miles from the old Swiss border and more than three-quarters of the way to his destination.

  But though it should have been a moment of triumph, Hunter let out a sad whistle as soon as he saw the mountains. How things change, he thought. Sure, he’d driven from the steppes of Russia to the foot of the Alps in one long dash, probably setting some kind of transcontinental land-speed record for heavy trucks in the process. Had he made the trip in his usual mode of transportation—his souped up F-16XL Cranked Arrow superfighter—the whole thing would have taken less than an hour.

  He drove on for another thirty miles or so, wearily shifting his tired butt around in the uncomfortable seat every few seconds. The Alpine peaks gradually filled his windshield; it was scary how high and jagged they were. The road was leading right towards two peaks in particular, both of which were so immense, they’d blotted out the late afternoon sun a long time ago. The shadow caused by these monsters made it seem like it was night already.

  He negotiated a long bend in the road and only then did he realize that there was a small city nestled at the base of the gigantic twin peaks. Even from five miles away, to Hunter’s tired eyes, this place looked different from the dozens of other empty cities he’d passed along the way. Though just as dark and cold as they were, looking at it through the dirty windshield was almost hypnotic. He was warm inside for a moment, a sensation he didn’t experience too often.

  He brought the truck to a stop at the side of the road about two miles from the outskirts of the city. Finally killing the big engine for the first time in fifty-one hours, he sat inside the chilly cab, soaking in the stupendous scenery and paying close attention to the small settlement just ahead. It could have been a postcard for the Alps: a collection of chalets and quaint Alpine buildings with the twin peaks soaring dramatically in the background. It was incredible. Hunter believed he could never get tired of look
ing at it.

  But eventually he found himself slumping down further into the cold, hard seat. He knew he would have to stay here, in the cab of the truck, for at least a little while. Night would soon be falling for real. If he was going to drive through the city, it was best he do so under the cover of darkness.

  He adjusted himself in the seat yet again, lifting his feet up to the dashboard and leaning back against the driver’s side door. Gradually his tired muscles began to relax. His ears heard nothing but silence—and were grateful for the change. Slowly, he began to close his eyes.

  When he opened them again, the first thing he saw was a line of hundreds of lights, twinkling off in the distance.

  Hunter was back up sitting straight in his seat in a flash. The lights were coming from the city, aglow at the base of the two mountains. He rubbed his eyes, just to make sure. This was the first sign of civilization he’d seen since leaving Baikonur. The buildings appeared alive and cordial, the smoke from many fires wafting high above them. Another warm tingling sensation was building inside his chest. He rubbed his eyes again. When he listened hard enough, he thought he could hear the faint hum of voices, electricity and machines, the sounds of life were resonating from the place.

  Rising out of the city, he could see a string of lights climbing up the side of the mountain towards the wide, snowy pass where the twin peaks met. They were bead-lights, faint and stuttering, illuminating a mountain road-way. This was good news; the road continued up and over the peaks, just as he’d hoped.

  But there was something happening way up where the two great mountains converged. The glow of many fires was illuminating the pass and the night sky on both sides of the peaks. A thick cloud of ugly black smoke was rising above it all. It looked like a forest fire, even though both the mountains and the crevice in between were capped in a perpetual layer of snow and ice. Hunter rolled down the truck’s window and turned his ear toward the west. He could hear the sound of explosions and gunfire, way off in the distance. He couldn’t believe it, it sounded like a war going on up there.

  He let his eyes fall back to the small city, getting slowly sucked in by its mysterious warm glow again. He hated to admit it, but he was cold, tired, hungry and thirsty. He was eyeing the place rather dreamily now—a shot of bergenwhiskas, a mug of beer and a plate of roast-beef stew would be a feast to him at this point…

  The next thing he knew, he was climbing down out of the truck, jumping first to the running board and then to the snowy road below. It was cold out and he had only a medium-season jacket pulled over his flight regs. Strangely though, it seemed warm enough. Strapping his trusty M-16F2 over his left shoulder, he pulled his ball cap down over his head as far as he could, stuck his hands in his pockets and started walking.

  After a while, his feet felt so light, they hardly touched the ground.

  Three

  THE NAME OF THE place was the Rootentootzen.

  Located near the south end of the city just below the twin massive peaks, it was a tavern in the very best old Alpine tradition. Built of stone, wood and mud, the structure had stood in this place for more than ten thousand years. Not much had changed inside in that time. A huge fire was roaring in the hearth that dominated the west wall of the place. A massive slab of roast beef was slowly rotating above it, spattering its juices onto the flames below. A half dozen kettles surrounded the spit as well, all of them full of steaming beef stew.

  The tavern was packed with a few hundred armed men, all of them wearing some variation of a mountain combat uniform. Everyone was drinking beer, everyone was eating stew. Buxom blond waitresses with blouses cut so low, their ample breasts were more exposed than not, literally flew above the crowd, trays full of food and ale balanced in front of them. Providing a soundtrack for all this, a battered CD player was pounding out the computerized bleats of an oom-pah band. Like the music, the mood inside the tavern was lusty and festive.

  Suddenly the doors to the place came flying open. A squad of enormous heavily armed soldiers walked in. They were dressed in bright-white combat fatigues, wearing Alpine-style fritz helmets and carrying Heckler & Koch MP5A3 submachine guns. The place came to a dead stop. Even the roaring hearth fire quieted down. Rock-jawed and cold, the soldiers eyed the crowd cautiously. The patrons stared right back.

  The man at the head of the column took one step forward. He was at least seven feet tall and sported an enormous white mustache. He gave the room a quick once-over then shouted: “Service papers…please!”

  In one oddly choreographed movement, every man in the place pulled a bright blue slip of paper out of his left breast pocket and held it at eye level. The massive white soldiers quickly began checking these slips. Vital information was written on them: the bearer’s name, his last rank, his weapons specialty, and how many hours of combat he’d seen in the past thirty days. Anyone bearing a card indicating less-than-expected service up on the line risked the humiliation of being dragged out of the bar and rushed back to the front.

  It was called a muster check. They were a nightly occurrence in the Rootentootzen. This particular evening everyone on hand passed the test.

  The mood in the tavern eased considerably as the last of the blue slips was checked. The gigantic officer with the white mustache signed off on the final one himself. Then, with an almost casual wave of his hand, the Rootentootzen came alive once more. The officer barked an order and his soldiers marched back out into the cold night, singing as they went. Down the street and into the tavern next door, the soldiers had more than a hundred and twenty-five of these places to check before their night was through.

  Drinking heartily from a mammoth beer stein, his face just inches above in a plate of beef stew, Hawk Hunter had watched the incident in a state of bemused amazement. He was sitting at the table in the corner, next to the antique CD machine. When the muster soldiers reached him, not only did they ignore him, they seemed to be looking right through him. Between his mouthfuls of stew, he’d simply stared up at them and very quickly they went away.

  Hunter had found the muster drill somewhat fascinating. The whole thing had played out like a ritual. It was obvious the huge white soldiers were looking for deserters and malingerers—the most interesting thing was they didn’t find any. Nor did it look like they ever did. It was clear to Hunter that great dishonor would have been felt on both sides should anyone be found out of order.

  He’d relied on his extraordinary pickpocketing talents to get the funds to purchase the bowl of beef stew and the huge stein of thick, sweet beer. All of it was going down extremely easily. He’d been at it for quite a while now, eating, drinking, studying the people and he’d learned much in this time. Though everyone was armed and obviously combat-hardened, they were a civilized lot. Many were drunk, but no one was rowdy. Many were horned up, yet no one was harassing the airborne waitresses. This was a very strange thing: a well-behaved, almost polite army.

  He’d also learned that a war—a small but brutal one—was being fought way up on the mountain, near the pass where the twin peaks converged. The glow of fire, the pall of smoke and the explosions he’d heard earlier were all coming from this nasty little conflict.

  The people in this city were fighting the people in another city that lay on the other side of the peaks. Hunter had heard many disparaging curses describing the alpineoberlanders—“the people over the mountains.” He’d noticed that a number of soldiers inside the tavern were missing fingers, ears, tips of the noses, bits of lips and chin. Others were limping noticeably. These fighters had been victims not of bullets but frostbite. Hunter shivered at the thought of it: mountain warfare was probably the worst way to fight; the worst way to die. If the guy shooting at you didn’t kill you, then the cold and the snow would, even if it did happen one digit at a time.

  After a trip to the head, he pinched some more money—weird-looking purple notes, splattered with portraits of apes, monkeys and chimps. He lifted enough to buy another bowl of stew and a refill for his stei
n. He’d shot down one of the waitresses, and during a moist session on his lap, she’d told him much about the cold little war up on the peaks. The city on the other side of the mountain was attempting to invade its neighbors. The city’s defenders had stopped them at the mountain pass. A frozen-form of trench warfare had been going on for six months now—and getting worse by the week. More casualties, and more deaths, were being reported every day. Supplies on this side of the mountain were running very low. No one in the city felt safe anymore—and everyone was expecting some kind of a larger, surprise attack at any moment.

  Hunter really didn’t want to hear any of this. It said a lot about the world these days: the first place with any signs of life in two thousand five hundred miles had a war going on close by. But even worse, he was still at least one hundred fifty miles away from Point Zero, the magical place he had to climb in order to get a good look at the Zon. It most certainly lay over this mountain and a few dozen more.

  So what should he do? Attempt to drive over the peaks anyway? Could he somehow avoid all the shooting and get to the other side to continue his journey?

  Probably not.

  But going around the conflict and searching for another way through the mountains would take much too long. This left a very short list of options, none of which he knew could be acted upon in here in the tavern. Reluctantly, he let the waitress go, scraped his bowl clean and then drained his stein.

  It was time to tell someone he was here.

  The official name of the city was Clochenspieltz.

  It had served as an exclusive ski resort for Europe’s rich and famous for centuries; even swells from the Bronze Age came here for the scenery. These days, everybody in the region knew it by the nickname: “Clocks.”

  There was a huge pyramid in the middle of Clocks. It was made of solid gold and was lit on all sides by huge halogen lamps. This imposing, magnificent building was actually the main headquarters of the Volksdefensfuhr, the city’s Home Defense Forces. Within it, a command staff of five hundred people ran operations against the army hired by the people on the other side of the mountains. The enemy city was just as big, just as isolated and oddly, just as picturesque as Clocks. Its official name was Werkenhausen. Everyone called it “Works.”