Keeping the flight deck spotless was part of his own, self-prescribed therapy. It was, quite literally, his way of keeping what was left of his sanity. Something deep inside told him that if he kept the flight deck clean and proper while the rest of the Zon deteriorated, it would somehow prevent him from going nuts altogether. Just why he felt like this, he didn’t know. That was probably his biggest problem—he had little or no memory retention these days in matters other than the technical aspects of keeping the Zon flying. The brainwashers had done their job well, almost surgically removing all aspects of his previous personality while leaving his ability to fly and understand things aeronautical completely intact.
The worst thing he’d suffered during his year in hell was the loss of his long-term memory. He was a victim of nearly total amnesia—despite all his talent and daring, the Zon pilot, an American, a true hero, a friend of the Wingman among others; simply didn’t know who he was.
Not exactly anyway.
The other part of the Zon space shuttle that was not in a state of complete disarray was the ICEM, the independently controlled environmental module.
This cylindrical container was about twenty-four feet long, ten feet around, and was located inside the Zon’s expansive cargo bay. As its acronym indicated, it was a self-supporting unit, a spacecraft within a spacecraft. Though it had no propulsive power of its own, it did boast its own life-support systems, including electricity, water filtration, air circulation and other essentials, all totally apart from the Zon itself.
There was no bad smell inside the ICEM, no water shortage, no temperature fluctuations, no clogged toilets.
There was only one permanent occupant within, and he was not hungry, thirsty or uncomfortable in any way, save for the nasty habit he’d developed of letting his cocaine spoon float away from his grasp, forcing him to unbuckle his safety harness and drift across the interior of the ICEM to retrieve it. This had happened to him at least ten times in the past hour, and at least a hundred times in the past twenty-four.
Being weightless in space was indeed a euphoric feeling. But being without gravity while under the influence of drugs was another thing completely. It made a weird sensation even weirder—and very unpredictable. Simple intoxicants like coke or morphine or speed could become like LSD, hallucinogenics that had the tendency to stay active in the bloodstream for longer periods of time. Many times nausea would result after injesting, or long bouts of cramping or hyperventilation. Floating while high wasn’t as much fun as it sounded.
The solution to all this would have seemed simple enough—either give up the nose candy or stop flying in space. But that was the big dilemma for the sole occupant of the ICEM: He was hooked on both.
Oddly, he had much in common with the pilot sitting alone up front in the Zon’s flight compartment. Like him, the man in the ICEM was something of a technical genius, an accomplished mathematician, a pilot and a professional soldier, all at one time. Or more accurately, he believed he’d been all those things. That he was also a KGB agent many years before was a little less certain. That he deserved the mantle as being the world’s most feared criminal and superterrorist was also very unclear.
Just like the Zon pilot, as far as he knew, he had no past, no family, no history at all. He wasn’t even sure what his name was. Everyone called him “Viktor” though, and after a while, he’d come to believe that was indeed his name.
At the moment, he was amusing himself by watching a pair of naked teenage girls float around the inside of the ICEM. They were trying to conduct a gravity-free forced-love session on each other, but hardly doing a good job of it. It was almost laughable to see them attempt to grasp and grope one another, all while trying their best to avoid coming anywhere near his vicinity—they knew anything could happen should they float too close to him.
So they flew about the cabin module, occasionally grabbing onto each other and performing several seconds of perfunctory lesbian sex before the uncertainties of weightlessness forced them apart to begin the whole display all over again. Viktor sat, strapped down, trying his best to pick the individual grains of cocaine out of the air with his tongue as he followed the bizarre zero-g kink show. This was usually how he passed the time during these flights; this and trying to come up with new, more efficient ways to snort his drug of choice while in orbit.
Occasionally, he used some rare energy to twist around and look out the ICEM’s only porthole. He did this now and saw that they had once again emerged from behind the Earth’s shadow. Somewhere in his drug-addled brain, he had the fleeting thought things were probably heating up inside the shuttle proper. Not that this made any difference to him. Shuttle operations bored him frankly—there were too many details, too many things to attend to. In many, many ways, he was just along for the ride.
Still, he was familiar with what his shuttle crew had to do while they were up here: since breaking into orbit three days ago, they’d been gathering up a series of satellites known as SDS-14s. These satellites, shot into space secretly by the United States nearly two decades before, were actually orbiting test stations, components of the so-called “Star Wars” system that had been designed to direct laser beams at enemy ICBMs, scrambling their guidance systems and their warhead targeting abilities even as they rose from their launchers.
Somehow, somewhere along the way, Viktor’s technical elite had discovered these small but lethal packages could be adapted for use back on Earth, and most conveniently, from aircraft. With very little tinkering, the SDS-14s could be mounted on an airplane of just about any size and used to either destroy enemy fighters in flight or to attack ground targets. The Zon had retrieved sixteen of these packages from space so far. There was thought to be another dozen or so still floating around in orbit.
The second half of the Zon’s current mission was to once again attempt a linkup with the old Soviet Mir space station. The Mir, abandoned years before, was still remarkably intact and operational. The mission of the first Zon launch several months before was to board it and replace the space station’s old, dead fuel cells. Since then, two of Viktor’s minions had been living inside the Mir, getting some of its systems back on line and taking out those that didn’t work.
Roughly the size of two city buses, the Mir was actually designed many years before with only one purpose in mind: to serve as a high-flying spy platform. The famous endurance records set inside the Soviet space station before it was abandoned were more suited to the annals of pre-Big War intelligence-gathering than any space achievements book. It was a poorly kept secret that the Mir had been used to peek in on many NATO operations which fell below its orbital path, and especially military developments in the U.S. It was a crude, expensive way to spy, but in the end, a highly effective one. Some of the cameras secreted on the Mir boasted the often-denied ability to photograph a pack of cigarettes in a person’s pocket on Earth so closely, the brand name was easily read. These cameras, designs stolen directly from the U.S., were still operational, much to the delight of Viktor’s technical corps. By using them, the two men inside the Mir could literally look in on just about any operation currently taking place in North America, Europe and the Far East. All without anyone on the ground suspecting a thing.
The problem with all this though, was locating the Mir once the Zon was up in orbit, and then docking with it once it was found. With the shuttle navigation system not being at one hundred-percent, just tracking the space station was a major chore. Once it was located, the Zon had to catch up to it, raising or lowering in its already shaky orbital path to do so. Then, if this was accomplished, the docking procedure would pose major complications. Because the Zon’s flight was skewed from the beginning, its tendency to wobble as it sped around the Earth at fifteen thousand, five hundred-plus mph increased with each orbit. This meant the two spacecraft could never actually link up. The whole idea was to get the Zon close enough to the Mir to allow someone to walk in space from one spacecraft to the other.
This was no
t always a successful procedure—they’d lost two men on the last flight trying to go from the Zon to the Mir. One had a tether line snap at the wrong moment; the other was killed by an electrical shock once he touched the main docking attachment on the space station. His death was due to incompetence however: the men inside the space station had forgotten to negative-ground everything before the transfer took place.
But it was very important that they link up with the Mir this time though—the two men inside had been cooped up for sixty-two days, with little water, food or personal comforts. Viktor and his technical people weren’t so concerned about the Mir crewmen as for the photographs they’d been taking while marooned inside the space station. That was another problem with Viktor’s low tech space program. The only way they could benefit from the high-flying spy station was to retrieve the photographs firsthand.
Viktor wasn’t sure exactly when he got the message that someone in the main section of the Zon wanted to come over to the ICEM.
He was bent over his seat, trying again to guide a wavering line of individual cocaine crystals up into his nostrils, when his intercom buzzed twice. It was more luck than anything that he was able to reach the return intercom button. He just happened to be floating nearby when it went off.
He was his usual gruff self dealing with the man on the other end. Viktor did not allow his minions to speak to him directly in matters that weren’t of the upmost urgency. Even when direct conversation was allowed, his underlings could not look him in the eye or speak more than three sentences without stopping and asking for permission to continue.
But he usually did talk to them on the radio. This one was telling him he had an urgent message which had to be delivered directly.
Viktor told him to come on over.
The act of transferring from the Zon, through the open cargo bay to the airlock on the ICEM was a ten-minute procedure. The person coming over had to climb into a spacesuit, get powered up, checked out, etc., then enter the egress chamber, where he would have to depressurize, open the hatch, crawl out into space, go hand over hand along sixteen supports, before reaching the ICEM hatchway. He would then have to go inside, pressurize the lock, depressurize his spacesuit and finally, step inside. One wrong move, anywhere along the line, would almost always prove fatal.
The man from the Zon went through these gyrations slowly but perfectly. He came through the ICEM airlock within twelve minutes of getting permission to come over. The first thing he saw when he removed his space helmet were a pair of tiny breasts floating by. He looked away almost immediately, a wise decision.
Viktor was strapped into his seat at the far end of the ICEM. capsule, his long hair and beard rising almost surrealistically above his head. He was dressed as always, in a long flowing black gown topped by a flaming-red, knee-length vest. His face was heavily made-up. He looked particularly foolish, yet sinister at the same time. No surprise then that even among the lowest of his legions, Viktor’s attire was described as a cross between an especially “colorful” bishop and a drag queen.
Viktor had somehow managed to corral another long line of floating cocaine and manipulate it up his nose. The two girls came wafting by him, they were locked in a breast-to-breast embrace now. He gave them the slightest push and they went spinning off again, arms and legs seemingly going in all directions at once.
Finally Viktor turned towards the man in the spacesuit. He was breathing very heavily, both from his long arduous, sixteen foot journey and from the fear anyone got when coming in direct contact with the devil himself.
Viktor sensed this right away, and put the appropriate scowl on his face: “Come forward and report!” he screamed at the man.
Shaking, the man immediately went to his knees and gave himself a little push. He quickly shot across the ICEM, arriving just three feet from Viktor’s satin-slippered feet still in his kneeling position. It was a maneuver perfected by all of the men on the Zon, just in case they had to meet with the boss one on one.
But this particular crewman could barely breathe now—he had bad news to deliver, probably the worst circumstance in which to meet with his leader.
“Disturbing news, sir,” the crewman began, his eyes zeroed in on Viktor’s red shoes.
Viktor never looked at him—he was too busy watching the two girls fly right above his head, their crotches fused together.
“Continue…” he said finally.
“We have discovered the primary landing site at Star City has been fouled, sir,” the crewman said, not moving a bit from his subservient position.
This did give Viktor a pause—though only a short one.
“Fouled?” he asked, authentically puzzled. “In what way?”
“An airplane has been scuttled at its center,” the terrified crewman reported. “A large one—possibly an American cargo craft. Several large holes have also been blown into the middle of the strip. We cannot land under those conditions…”
The two young girls bounced off the top of the ICEM and came down right in front of Viktor’s face. He tickled them both and sent them on their way again.
Then he turned his attention back to the prone crewman.
“So, get someone to repair the strip,” he said simply.
The man bowed lower. “We cannot, sir,” he whispered, absolutely petrified now. “The damage to the runway is so severe, we cannot fix it in time for our return. Plus…”
The man would stumble over the next few words—badly.
“…plus, there is no one on hand to do the repairs,” he finally spit out. “We know of the damage only through a routine photo pass. In fact we have not had any contact with anyone at Star City in nearly three days.”
Again Viktor was forced to pay attention to the man.
“No contact?” he asked. “For three days?”
“It’s true, sir,” the man replied. “Apparently everyone left the city right after we launched, because…”
Viktor’s foot suddenly came up under the crewman’s jaw, kicking him hard. The next thing he knew, the crewman was face to face with Viktor, so close he could smell the man’s perfume-like body odor.
“…because?” Viktor sneered at him.
The crewman gulped hard. His life was beginning to flash before his eyes. “Because, according to the last confirmed radio transmission, there was a rumor…a story, really, or some kind of panicked intelligence report…that…”
Viktor’s devilish grin turned to a scowl.
“Speak!” he shouted at the man.
“Because there was talk that…well, Hawk Hunter was seen in the area…”
The crewman was floating nose to nose with Viktor now. He was so frightened he believed he could feel the heat rising off Viktor’s face.
“Hawk Hunter?” he asked in a whisper. “In Star City?”
“Yes, sir,” the crewman croaked.
Viktor began to say something but stopped short.
Instead he pulled the girls close to him again, nibbled on their breasts and then let them go. This was his way of thinking.
“Well, if the runway is fouled,” he whispered to the man finally. “Let us set down at one of the alternate sites. How many are available?”
Still shaking, the man reached inside his suit and handed Viktor a list.
“These are the secondary bases we can secure quickly,” he told him. “I can leave this with you, and you can select.”
Viktor took the list from the crewman and finally released him from the tip of his toe. The crewman immediately floated back down to the bottom of the ICEM.
After a few short moments, he looked up and gulped.
“Will that be all, my lord?”
Viktor looked down at him, then up at the spinning girls.
“Not quite,” he said.
With the wave of his hand, he brought the two girls down towards them. He whispered something into one girl’s ear and then let them go again.
They both swam the length of the ICEM and descended b
efore the mystified crewman. Soon they were running their hands up and down his neck, shoulders and pelvis. With Viktor’s approving nod, they began unzipping the crewman’s spacesuit, taking extra care to unleash the fasteners around his crotch area.
It took about three minutes to get it off him completely, the crewman being totally confused as to what was actually going on. Now standing in nothing more than a spaceman’s version of long underwear, the girls began plunging their hands down his PHFP, the “personal hygiene flap panel.” The crewman found himself floating backwards as their knowing fingers reached and squeezed his most sensitive of areas.
He’d heard much about sex in space—how it was supposed to be ten times as intense as back on Earth, a secret kept well hidden by NASA during the American shuttles’ heyday. He was beginning to believe this was all true, when suddenly he saw Viktor raise his right hand. The girls immediately stopped squeezing him and slowly floated away. The crewman looked at Viktor, who was smiling devilishly.
“All right, that will be all,” he told the man.
The crewman bowed deeply. “Yes, sir…” he said, still confused, but anxiously pulling himself towards his floating spacesuit.
“I said, dismissed…” Viktor roared at him.
The crewman froze in place—and gently floated to the ceiling.
“But sir…I must get into my…”
Viktor just stared at him.
The crewman’s eyes grew wide with fear.
“Sir…I need my suit to go back out…”
Viktor was slowly shaking his head side to side. The girls both let out a gasp.
“Dismissed…” Viktor said again.
The man began to cry. Slowly he drifted back to the airlock. With trembling hands, he yanked the hatch back and put one foot inside.
Then he turned back to Viktor—tears flowing off his face and into the perfume-saturated cabin atmosphere.
“Mercy, sir?” he asked, all life gone out of his voice. “I am needed to run things in the main ship…”
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