Tomorrow War (36 page)

“Well, we wanted to take out that central command post,” Kurjan said. “Looks like Hawk did it for us—and saved our asses in the process.”

There was a deadly silence now. No one wanted to say what was on everyone’s mind.

But combat veterans all, they knew there was no way Hunter could have survived.

Or could he?

Above Kabul Downs

H
UNTER COULD NOT REMEMBER
if he had ever used a parachute before.

Certainly not in this world. But how about in the other? That other life of his Back There?

He didn’t think so.

It just wasn’t like him to leave an airplane in flight. He was sure that Back There he’d had one special airplane—the F-16XL. He just couldn’t imagine getting into so much trouble that he’d actually bail out of it.

But now, in this very different place, he was finally hitting the silk. And it looked like he was descending down into the pit of Hell itself.

The B-2000 had gone in with such an impact, it had thrown him clear of the storm cloud, clear of the lightning that was now illuminating the sky just north of him. By his own rough calculations, he estimated the giant bomber had hit the central command station at more than 2,500 mph. The result was akin to a small atomic bomb.

Now as he drifted down through the dust clouds, he could see the huge gaping hole on the west side of the city, where the central command station had been hidden. One look and he knew nothing could have possibly survived such an impact.

The question was, would it be enough to cause both the Blues and Blacks to give up the fight long enough to allow the rest of the Red Forces to escape?

He drifted down through the next cloud layer and saw that his worst fears were being realized. The battlefield was still alit with explosions, with artillery shells falling, with machine guns spewing out streams of tracers.

So, had his plan not worked?

Or hadn’t it taken effect yet?

He didn’t know …

He drifted through the last layers of clouds, and now the stink of smoke and cordite began to inflame his nostrils.

The crashing of the big jet he’d done to perfection. But to his chagrin, he’d forgotten about the most important part: where the hell to land once he’d bailed out.

He jiggled his parachute cords now this way and that, but it was no use. He was heading for the center of a huge gun battle going on between the Blacks and the Blues.

And he had no weapon. Nothing at all with which to defend himself.

This was not good.

It took him another two minutes to reach a point about one thousand feet above the battlefield. The ground below still seemed to be shaking from the earth-shattering impact of the B-2000. There were flames all over the city, some streets were cracked wide open, and many buildings had toppled over just from the shock wave alone.

Hunter was getting pissed. Why he’d thought all fighting would stop as soon as he iced the central command station, he just didn’t know. Judging from what was happening beneath his boots, the fighting was raging even more furiously than before.

Had he made a huge miscalculation? Had his bold plan to stop the war actually made it worse? Had he
killed
more people than he hoped to save?

He just didn’t know …

Suddenly he felt the air pressure around him change. His body began shaking. He twisted around in his chute just quickly enough to see a spread of huge howitzer shells heading right for him. He moved just in time to avoid being hit, but the concussion of the shells passing by felt like a hammer had hit him on the skull.

His head spinning, he looked back down and saw a huge explosion coming up right at his feet. Again he tried to jiggle out of the way, but the huge concussive force—the second in less than thirty seconds—hit him full force, blowing him and his parachute up about 250 feet.

He blacked out for a few seconds; when he came to, he saw that the soles of his boots were smoking. That’s how close he’d come to being consumed by the huge fireball.

He was very woozy now, praying to hit the ground even though he wasn’t sure what would be greeting him once he did. He was trying to focus his eyes on his eventual landing spot, now five hundred feet below, when another series of huge explosions went off, one right after another, all around him. These were massive triple-A shells exploding high over the battlefield. It was like being punched as hard as possible in the head and stomach. He doubled over in midair, never before could he remember feeling such pain.

It was hard for him to keep his eyes open. Then his parachute collapsed. The ground was coming up at him so fast, it was all just a blur of smoke and flames and rocks and dirt.

With his last ounce of strength, he tried to brace himself for a hard landing. He tensed his muscles, took a deep breath, and gritted his teeth.

He hit—
very
hard—three seconds later. His head came down first—not the way to land from twenty thousand feet. He grazed a huge boulder that was still smoking from an explosion just seconds before. Hunter saw stars—red ones, black ones, blue ones. Then he lost consciousness.

Hunter lay there, tangled in his parachute, head bleeding, bones cracked, for at least an hour as the battle raged around him.

His eyes were closed, his body pummeled by rocks and other flying debris. His ears bled from the sound of explosions and gunfire going on around him. He was sure he could hear tanks creaking in the distance, way off, but coming in his direction. Yet he could not move. He was stuck in place. Unable to see or cry out.

All he could do was hear—and the sounds he heard were those of brutal combat, getting closer with every passing second.

So this was how it was going to end?

How many times had he thought
that
in the past few months?

It just didn’t seem right: to die here, so far away, on some unknown battlefield in a very stupid war. Yet all the evidence seemed to be stacking up that way.

He even began to see faces flash before his eyes. His parents. When was the last time he’d
really
seen them? His friends from MIT, that school from so long ago. The Thunderbirds … everyone, from the pilots to the ground crew. Fitz. JT. Ben. The Jones boys. How strange was his life that he’d been able to see these close friends in two lives? In two places?

Maybe it was fitting, then, that this was where he would die. What more could he ask from his life?

More faces came to him. All the beautiful women he’d known. Sarah—the pilot back home. Where was she now? Did she ever think of him? He’d left her so suddenly, he wouldn’t blame her if she hated him now.

He hoped she didn’t …

Then there was that strange woman, Elizabeth Sandlake. Beautiful but deranged—like life itself. She’d almost killed him several times Back There—and he’d seen her here in this world, posing as a crazed fortune-teller. Odd that he would be thinking of her now, at a time like this.

There was also that very pretty blonde—Chloe. He’d had an adventure to beat all with her Back There, and had fallen for her so hard, he’d heard his heart drop. He had met her here, too. Back on West Falkland Island. But he’d never made it back to her.
Damn.
And now he never would.

There were many others—all beautiful, all sexy. Just the thought of them, and their faces flashing before his eyes, filled him with a very warm feeling.

But even as it was getting warm inside, he felt himself getting cold on the outside. He tensed up.
My God,
he thought. He could feel the life draining right out of him.

Too many hits on the head? Maybe heart damage? Maybe a combination of both? Exactly
why
he was dying really didn’t make much difference to him now.

Was it all just a folly? All just a waste of time? To come to this very foreign land and fight this very foreign war? For what? On the advice of a ghost that he may or may not have even seen?

Oh, well, it didn’t make much difference now. His whole body was getting cold. He felt like going to sleep. All around him the noise got louder, and the tanks got nearer.

But
damn it!
He didn’t want to be crushed by a tank. He tried to move, but couldn’t. He felt like he was set hard in cement.

It was strange—but there was
another
woman in his life. Just one more. The most special. How could he have forgotten?

She was so beautiful! So warm, and smart, and … and they had lived together Back There. Off and on anyway. And when he was not with her, he’d spent the time yearning for her. Dreaming about her. Fighting for her.

But she was dead … of that much he was sure.

And it was this thought that practically drained the last of the life force out of him. Damn, wouldn’t you know it, as the Wingman was drawing his last dying breath, that this woman he’d had way Back There, this beauty that had been so close to him …

Damned if he couldn’t remember her name ….

Blackness now, coming in. He was going … slipping away. He saw a long tunnel, and there at the end of it was the Light again. The same one he’d seen that terrible day he dropped the superbomb.

Now there was a figure at the end of the tunnel beckoning to him … and suddenly he felt warm inside again. And he was drifting up to the Light. And all the people he’d just thought about were there, and he felt a warmth inside him that was so overwhelming, he wanted nothing more than to feel it.

Forever …

“Just hang on, buddy. I’ve got you … !”

What?

“I’ve got you, friend … just try to stay together …”

What was happening? The tunnel was fading. The warmth was going. He felt something in his arm. A hypodermic needle.

Something was shot into him. Someone was dragging him, through the muck, over jagged rocks and through putrid water.

What was happening here? He was being rescued?

Really?

Suddenly his body ached incredibly, and he was hot and he was cold and his hands were numb from the pain, and his head was pounding—and he was being dragged a few inches at a time across a very rugged landscape.

God, did he really want this?

The battle raged all around him. Hunter could feel the hot searing bullets passing so close to him they burned his skin. His ears were bleeding again with the sound of explosions going off. His whole body ached so! He was nauseous. And this person just kept dragging him. Like he was being yanked over a field of broken glass.

Finally they toppled into a ditch filled with water and gasoline.

Hunter fell facedown into the smelly mud.

The person rolled him over and wiped the muck from his face. Hunter finally was able to open his eyes.

But for the moment, he could only see the outline of the man who had dragged him to safety. He was wearing a black camo uniform. God, he was a mercenary … for the Black Army!

Hunter could not see his face.

An instant later, he felt a sting in his left arm.

“That’s a shot of adrenaline,” the man said. “Hang on, it’s a real jolt.”

Hunter was about to say something when the full force of he shot hit him. He felt like he was falling out of the sky again. His whole body suddenly felt electric.

“Jeesuzz,” he murmured. “What a freaking rush …”

“If you think so,” the man said, “then get ready for this.”

He felt another needle go into his arm.

“That’s fifty ccs of morphine,” the man said. “To kill the pain.”

Now Hunter felt another jolt go through him. Suddenly he was floating above the battlefield. He felt as strong as Superman, and he was floating, and there was no way any pain could break through his skin of steel.

He reached up and wiped the rest of the mud from his eyes, and that’s when he finally saw the face of the man who had saved him.

Very thin features, sharp beard. Haunting eyes.

My God …

“It’s you?”
Hunter asked him.

“Christ!” he said.
“Hunter?”

It was Viktor.

He was as astonished as the Wingman. His eyes went very, very wide. He jumped back. “How can this be?” he yelped.

Hunter was so stunned, he couldn’t speak. Flashes of green light went before his eyes. This man had been his mortal enemy for years—the devil on earth. But that was the
other
earth. Now, he had just risked his life to save him.

It just didn’t make sense … or did it.

“We … we are not the same people that we were,” Hunter was babbling now.

Viktor just looked down at him.

“I-I don’t know who I was back there,” he said, stammering as he covered Hunter’s most apparent wounds.

A huge explosion went off nearby, covering them with rocks and shrapnel.

“Can you walk?” Viktor asked him.

Hunter was certain he could not only walk, but actually fly … really
fly …
without an airplane.

“Yes, I can,” he finally replied.

They started moving. Hunter realized for the first time that they were very close to the city itself. The majority of fighting was taking place farther out toward the Red Army lines. The only wise thing to do was to seek the shelter of the city.

They began running in a low crouch, Viktor helping Hunter every step of the way, over the battlefield, onto the cracked streets, stopping only once they reached the burned-out core of a building.

There was still gunfire all around them. Explosions going off. The sky was still filled with streaks of artillery shells passing close overhead.

Viktor just stared at him and Hunter stared back. Every fiber in Hunter’s being was telling him that this man, this piece of human puke, had killed millions Back There. Yet here, he was just the opposite. He was an angel of mercy. A medic, complete with a large armband with a huge Red Cross on it. And strangest of all, Viktor wasn’t even aware of how much he had changed.

Hunter just shook his head. What kind of a life was he leading?

“It must be some kind of cosmic thing that we should meet again like this,” Viktor was saying, taking off his field pack. “I recall hitting the water with you back then … and that was it. But I have met a man, down in the Falklands, he knows how we can get back to where we came from.”