Target: Point Zero

by Maloney, Mack;

  He swung the biplane back to the north, edging closer to the enemy lines. Just as Orr’s blurry recon photos had revealed earlier, the trenches dug by the Works army were larger, longer, more elaborate and more interconnected than those built by Clocks. Orr had been right—the invaders were taking their time executing this battle. Their network of ditches alone must have taken months to create.

  Hunter steered the Sopwith into a huge updraft, it carried them up another five hundred feet in just a matter of seconds. His attention was drawn away from the battlefield and to the valley on the other side of the mountain. It was strange—he’d assumed Works was just like Clocks: a collection of Alpine-style houses and buildings, surrounded by grand snowcapped mountains. But Works was hardly like Clocks. Rather it looked like a city that had been transported from another, more industrial part of Europe and plopped down in the middle of the Alps. A handful of slate gray buildings dominated its center; they were surrounded by stalks of thin, spiraling skyscrapers. An extensive network of walkways and people-trams connected these buildings, giving the impression that the city was enshrouded in a gigantic spider’s web. Swarms of small helicopters were flying around everywhere, keeping an eye on things.

  Metropolis—that’s what it looked like. Not the home of Superman, but the city in the movie of the same name by Fritz Lang. Eerie, stark and mechanical. There was nothing warm or inviting about this place.

  “Where Nazis go to die,” Hunter thought.

  He banked back left and returned to the business below. Orr was snapping away madly with his cameras now, delighted that for the first time, Clocks was getting an accurate assessment of the enemy’s disposition of forces, weaponry and supplies. But just from what Hunter had seen, it was obvious that the invaders had twice the men, twice the weapons and apparently all the time in the world to wear down their enemies.

  This was not a good situation.

  Giving in to a rare temptation, Hunter decided to shake things up a bit. He suddenly dropped the Sopwith into a screaming dive, plunging towards the Works lines. Much to his pleasure, many enemy soldiers began scrambling out of their trenches, so sure they were that he was going to open up on them. Instead, Hunter yanked the plane’s choke lever, causing the big engine to backfire, further terrifying the Works soldiers. It was almost comical to see them running in every direction. Hunter was glad that Orr was capturing the whole thing on film.

  He finally pulled up from the prank, banked left and found himself clear on the other side of the mountain, very low over the rear area of the enemy line. The roads leading up the peaks on the Works side were packed with supply trucks and fresh troops. Hunter put the biplane into another steep dive. The enemy soldiers on the roads scattered just as quickly as their comrades had in the trenches. Though they’d seen him coming, not one of them attempted to fire back at him. Everyone on the Works side of the mountain seemed to be more interested in finding cover than fighting back.

  Hunter looped around and was soon back over the Works army trenches again. Orr had depleted two-thirds of his film load by this time; there was just enough for one final photo pass. But just as Hunter was banking to do this, the hair on the back of his head suddenly began to curl. Instantly his eyes became fixed on a point halfway up the southern peak, about two miles from the end of the Clocks left flank. It was a large cave, possibly man-made, and located in such a way that everything within was bathed in perpetual shadow, except its precipice. Poking out from this darkness, Hunter could see the long metallic snout of something big, something mean.

  A cloud of vapor poured out of his mouth. Jessuzz, he breathed. Is that really a gun?

  It was a gun. Actually a huge cannon, the tip of its wide barrel giving only a hint of its massive size. It had to be at least a 205-millimeter barrel, a gargantuan piece of long-range artillery. Yet from its semihidden position, it was all but invisible to the Clocks troops in the trenches. Hunter jinked the plane closer towards the opening—he could see much evidence of construction going on deeper inside the cave. He pointed the gun out to Orr who, slack-jawed and frigid, used the very last of his film shooting the big emplacement.

  The gun was not yet operational, thank God. But when it was, Hunter had no doubt it would be able to easily lob shells not only onto the unprotected soldiers but onto the city of Clocks itself. Combined with the enemy’s heavy aerial bombardment capability and its stronger position in the trenches, it seemed like only a matter of time before they overwhelmed the defenders.

  With this chilly thought in mind, Hunter finally turned the Sopwith over and began going down again, back towards the embattled city of Clocks.

  Six

  THEY LIT THE EVENING fires early that day in the Rootentootzen.

  A large calf had been partially butchered around noon. It was now cooking slowly over the spit inside the tavern’s enormous hearth.

  There had been a change-out of units up on the mountain just after dawn. Seven hundred fresh soldiers and militiamen had reached the trenches, relieving a similar number of cold, hard, battle-weary troops. They now had forty-eight hours of warmth, food, drink—and if they were lucky, sex—waiting for them before they had to climb back up the peak again.

  Many of these soldiers were now just arriving back in Clocks, having endured the long, slippery six-hour trip down the mountain. At one time, earlier in the war, returning troops would first report to the muster halls on the west end of town, where they would be formally released for their forty-eight-hour liberty. Not anymore. Some soldiers leapt from their troop trucks just as soon as they came in sight of the notorious southside of the city, intent on storming their favorite beer hall, chow palace or brothel. Many others dropped off further along the way, too. For most of the remaining soldiers though, the only slightly less disreputable Rootentootzen was the tavern of choice.

  It was now three in the afternoon, but thick clouds and heavy snow had turned the early afternoon as dark as dusk. Even the streetlights had blinked on—not that it made any impression on the patrons crowded inside the Rootentootzen. The faux-oompah music was blaring, the stew was crackling and the beer was flowing. Soldiers returning from the fight heard tales of the harrowing air raid the night before, and most especially, about the wreck of the He-111 out on the northern plain. The downed airplane had been the object of study and inspection by many of the townspeople this day. The rumors said the Wehrenluftmeister, Colonel Orr himself, had shot down the enemy bomber; others claimed it fell to the guns of a “super-mercenary” who’d just recently come to town. Some lips, those most doused by ale, dared to breathe that this helpful stranger was none other than Hawk Hunter himself.

  But few people believed this—why would the Wingman come to little old Clocks? Still the talk of Hunter perked up at least some ears inside the bar, especially those belonging to the half dozen men sitting at the far corner table. Eating from a single cauldron of stew and nursing a small pitcher of beer, they’d been inside the beer hall since early morning, talking quietly and keeping to themselves. Such behavior was not unusual for the Rootentootzen; with so many hired guns in town, the sight of six strangers spending all day in a bar was more the norm than the exception. These men were mercenaries—but not for Clocks. They were airmen for the Works Luftstaffel; they’d arrived rather ungraciously in the Heinkel bomber now sitting wrecked out on the city’s north plain.

  The six aviators had escaped their crash with remarkably few wounds—cuts, bumps and bruises, mostly. It was a tribute to the skill of Franz, the bomber’s pilot and senior officer. It was his idea to come here, to one of the most popular taverns in the city, in order to hide out. With the police still scouring the backstreets and the surrounding countryside looking for them, he believed their best plan was to conceal themselves in plain sight. There was no better place to do that than the Rootentootzen.

  A few gold coins found in the pocket of the dead copilot had bought them their meal and the precious pitcher of beer, and they were keeping warm. But they had man
y problems facing them. They desperately had to get back to Works, though this desire came not from any sense of patriotism or loyalty. The air crew were all Germans, but they were also paycheck warriors. They’d been promised a half pound of gold apiece to take part in the bombing raid on Clocks. That substantial bounty still lay on the other side of the peaks.

  And now this talk of Hawk Hunter was upsetting them. Three of the airmen had fought in America with the Fourth Reich XX Corps two years before. During the first few months of that conflict, it was taken for granted that Hawk Hunter had been killed in the opening battle of the war. That assumption came back to haunt the Fourth Reich in spades. When Hunter eventually showed up and began leading the American effort, it was the beginning of the end for the Nazis’ Amerika adventure. In the series of battles that followed, the Fourth Reich was soundly defeated by resurgent American forces. So many Fourth Reich soldiers had been taken prisoner the Americans had no choice but to ship them all back home in disgrace, adding yet another inglorious chapter to German military history.

  It was no surprise then, that the mere mention of the Wingman would make the three airmen nervous.

  Franz, too, was unsettled by the blabbering about the American superpilot. In his typically Prussian way of thinking, he knew if Hawk Hunter was in the area then it could mean only one thing: Works would eventually lose this fight, too. All the more reason to get back over the mountain and get paid before the next boot fell. But how to do it? He and his men had spent much of the time inside the beer hall trying to devise the next step of their escape. They’d quickly discovered they really had few options to get out. They had no guns, no warm clothing, no maps, no radio, and now, little money. Other than sprouting wings and flying over the top of the mountain, there really was no way out.

  The few coins they had left bought another bowl of stew and a mug each of ale. As the bar became more crowded, and more festive, a strange thing happened: the enemy fliers found themselves getting caught up in the rowdy atmosphere of the Rootentootzen. There were many, many pretty girls, and they all seemed enamored of anyone who walked through the door in a uniform. Several had already made passes by the air crew’s table, eyes darting this way and that, just hoping to be invited to join the six rugged aviators. The men from Works had been able to resist temptation, but just barely.

  They did, however, get swept up in one of the many sing alongs that periodically washed through the well-oiled crowd. The song, “Ferme le Pook,” was a favorite on both sides of the mountain, and the strong ale gave the Works aviators the courage to take a chorus by themselves. This brought several rounds of complimentary drinks to their table, which they drained heartily. This, in turn, led to further singing, and more free ale, and soon, the enemy fliers were standing on their chairs belting out old favorites like “Under-handen der Fräulein” with lusty abandon. Very quickly, their table was close to toppling over, so full it was with steins of gratis beer.

  But then, just as the enemy aviators had taken their sixteenth round of free ale, the door to the bar suddenly burst open and a dozen soldiers marched in. Dressed in Alpine-white camouflage suits and carrying submachine guns, the city’s muster squad was raising soldiers for the next deployment up the mountain.

  “Papers, please!” the officer at the head of the squad announced loudly—and with just as much verve, the dozens of soldiers crammed into the beer hall quickly complied. Some had just come down off the mountain and resented the so-soon intrusion on their liberty. But most simply held out their blue cards and let the soldiers take their cursory look. It took about five minutes in all. The last table the muster soldiers came to was the one bearing the six escapees.

  It was Franz who smashed the stein of beer in the officer’s face. The man went over backwards, tripping on his own feet as he fell. Franz was on top of him in a flash, digging the jagged edge of the broken cup into the officer’s neck. He found the jugular quickly, slashing it open and releasing a massive stream of blood all over the muster soldiers and the patrons.

  Suddenly tables were being knocked over and chairs were flying through the air. Everyone dove for cover. One of Franz’s men grabbed the dying officer’s rifle and began firing it around the beer hall with ruthless abandon, killing and wounding several people with this as cover, the six escapees made their way towards the front door, picking up more weapons as they went. Women were screaming, men were shouting. But through it all, no one fired back at the enemy fliers.

  Finally Franz and his men fell out onto the snowy street. Each one had a weapon now and they were ready to shoot anything that moved. The street was empty—and deathly quiet. No one came out of the beer hall to chase them; no one raised an alarm. The only sound they could hear was the murderous wind, rushing off the mountain.

  They started walking, briskly, not running as that would draw too much attention. They ducked down a back alley, and headed east. It was now about five in the evening and Clocks was as dark as midnight, providing the escapees with even more cover. Still, only after they’d moved several blocks away from the Rootentootzen did they start to relax.

  They reached a particularly dark district—one that was still smoldering from the bombing raid the night before. Franz ordered his men to stop, if only to catch their breaths for a moment. Leaning up against the side of an abandoned building, the crewmen suddenly broke out into a chorus of “Ferme le Pook.”

  Franz did not join in—he couldn’t. A bright light had appeared overhead, and he was now paralyzed by the damn thing. It suddenly began dropping out of the sky, heading right towards them. It grew so bright as it approached, it hurt Franz’s eyes to look at it. His men continued their singing, somehow unaware of the terrifying light.

  It finally pulled up in a hover, not thirty feet right above Franz’s head. It was tremendous in size, saucer-shaped, and giving off a loud mechanical hum. Bursts of light and color were sparkling all around it. When Franz looked closely, he could see it was revolving at an impossibly high rate of speed.

  Suddenly, a searing beam of bright light flashed out of the bottom of the object, hitting two of Franz’s men in their chests. They lit up instantly—Franz was astonished that he could see the bones moving around inside their skin. There was a sound akin to a crack of thunder and then, the two men simply disappeared.

  With that, the craft shuddered once, and in a great burst of power and speed, shot straight up into the night sky. Horrified, Franz watched it quickly disappear among the stars overhead. Throughout the whole episode, his other three men never stopped singing.

  Shaken and confused, Franz somehow recovered long enough to bark out an order. His men jumped to their feet on the first syllable and wordlessly retrieved the weapons dropped by their disintegrated colleagues.

  Still drunk, the remaining escapees began running. Down the street, across a small square, through a children’s park; Franz was in the lead, running without his pants on.

  They soon found another darkened alley, and quickly turning into it, vanished in the snowy night.

  Hunter was clear on the other side of town when he heard about the shootout at the Rootentootzen.

  He was inside the golden pyramid, sitting at a table in Orr’s war room that was so large, it could hold up to one hundred twenty seats. Just over a dozen of them were occupied at the moment.

  The mood around this table was understandably grim. The presence of the huge enemy gun up on the south mountain was catastrophic for Clocks. Fighting a cold, trench war way up in the clouds was one thing; living under the barrel of a weapon that could lob a one ton shell up to ten miles was quite another. No sooner had Hunter and Orr returned from their photo recon flight when they agreed that the big gun would have to be attacked immediately.

  Before them now were twelve men—freelance pilots hired by Clocks before the city took delivery on its triplane air force. The pilots had been living inside the pyramid for the past six weeks, staying out of the public eye, content to collect their pay though they’d yet
to fly a single mission. At first glance, the conflict between Clocks and Works meant little to them. It was simply business.

  The twelve pilots were all Russian. Only about a third could speak English, and not very clearly. One man spoke English fairly well. His name was Alexander Ivanov and he was the commander of the mercenary air unit. He’d flown just about every airplane in the old Russian Air Force, he’d told Hunter, from MiG-25s to the giant Antonov cargo plane. The Wingman was impressed by Ivanov’s knowledge of airplanes and aeronautics. With his sharp eyes and quick wit, Ivanov seemed a natural for the fighter pilot game.

  His pilots, known collectively as the Sturmoviks, had been together for three years now. They were warriors-for-hire true, but all had avowed hatred for the notorious Red Star group, the clique of renegade Russian militarists who’d started the Big War in the first place. As a collective unit, the Sturmoviks’ reputation was impeccable; they’d fought in many of the conflicts that had raged throughout Central Europe in recent times, and boasted an impressive record of always winding up on the winning side. But like most mercenary groups, Hunter knew the true test of their mettle could only be proven in combat.

  The past few weeks had been easy for the Sturmoviks—or “Stormers” as Orr called them. This was not because they didn’t know how to fly the antique collection of airplanes in Clocks Air Force—Orr had told them to sit tight until he could locate some more-modern airplanes for them. But now, with the discovery of the big gun, time was quickly running out on the city. The Russians were told they would have to take to the air in the refurbished World War I planes. In the end, it didn’t seem to faze them one way or the other.

  Spread out on the big planning table before them, were the three dozen blow ups of photographs Hunter and Orr had taken earlier. These included the clearest views they had of the big 205-millimeter gun sticking out the south peak. The Russian pilots’ eyes went wide when they saw the size of the cannon and its substantial cavernous emplacement. No translation was needed here: the gun would be the first target for their first mission for Clocks.