In a dress…
Hunter walked out the back door of the castle, over a rickety bridge that spanned the empty moat, to the edge of the mountain.
The view from here was spectacular, even if the scenery consisted of little more than miles upon miles of utter devastation. Hunter could look down not just on this local battlefield, but on many other battlefields off in the distance as well. This spot was probably the best vantage point on the entire moon, if one liked watching Nazis kill each other. And that's exactly what the last person up here had been doing.
On a small outcrop of rock located at the far eastern point of the peak, Hunter found an old wooden table and chair. There was a plate on the table holding a few crumbs of what had been a very dark loaf of bread. An empty bar glass beside the plate still contained a few drops of a clear liquid. Hunter put one of the drops to his tongue. This was not water made to look like liquor. This was the real stuff. Vodka. A very strong brand.
Beside the glass was an ancient corncob pipe. Its bowl was filled with tobacco ash. Hunter stuck his finger into the bowl and found it was still warm.
Damn, he thought.
He put it all together and came to the only logical conclusion. The Mad Russian had sat up here and watched what to any Russian would have been considered the ultimate in entertainment: Nazis killing Nazis.
And judging by the warmth of the pipe, Hunter had missed him by only a few minutes.
At last, the quadtrol helped him find the next ticket booth. Whether it was a case of proximity, or design, or both, he located it just a mile away, down the other side of Valhalla mountain, and through a field that had seen some fighting in this crazy war, but judging from the rust of the wreckage, not for some time.
The ticket booth was just like the others: a simple structure made of the fake wood, barely enough room inside for him and the PC. The sign above the door announced the next attraction as: Chyzol Tainü Mir — Smozesh li ti viderzat eto peklo. Or, in English: Alien Mystery World*—Can You Take the Heat?
Hot or cold, after spending time in this bizarre war heaven, Hunter was ready for anything, just as long as it was far away from here. More important, he was hopeful that he was closing in on the Mad Russian. That he might be right behind his quarry as he moved through his own dizzylando. Riding the rides, just as Hunter was.
Hunter turned on the PC and went through the boot up process that was now routine. Name. Password. Punch the ticket. Get past the security walls. Fill in hobby. He didn't bother to take one last look around this time; he'd seen enough of this Nazi quagmire and was anxious to move on.
He hit the Enter button.
7
"Do you have your water. Comrade?"
Hunter looked up into a bright, brutal sun to see five men dressed in full battle gear staring down at him.
Each was wearing a one-piece, sand camo combat suit equipped with built-in radio, belts for carrying ammunition, survival kits and flare guns. Each was also wearing a combat helmet that covered the entire head down to the neck, and featured only a slim red glass visor to look out from, and carrying an enormous assault weapon complete with laser range finder and bayonet.
These five individuals looked like something Hunter might have encountered in just about any corner of the Galaxy these days. Mercs, soldiers of fortune, space pirates. Ready to rock.
But these people were not contemporaries. He knew that much, simply by eyeing the tiny red badge each man had attached over his left breast pocket. It showed a small red star surrounded by a yellow field, and the Cyrillic letters: SPZ.
Hunter didn't need the quadtrol to tell him what these three letters meant. He'd seen them before.
Spetsnaz..
Russian Special Forces.
So it was the Russians again.
But then he looked down at what he was wearing and was in for another shock: he was dressed exactly as they.
"Comrade… I ask you again. Do you have your water? Or are you already suffering from the heat?"
All Hunter could do was nod, as the reality of the new situation flooded in. Yes, he was most definitely among the Reds again. But this time, instead of fighting them, he was one of them.
"Do not short change yourself or us by bringing too little," the man asking him the questions said in broken English. He was obviously the leader here. "This American desert is much more harsh than any in our country. Even more so than in Africa or Iraq."
Hunter dismissed this man's concerns, at least temporarily, with an impatient wave of his hand. He took a quick scan of his surroundings, trying his best to take in as much as he could.
They were in the deep desert, there was no doubt about that. They were standing next to a motor vehicle that had the word Caravan on it. It was dusty and beat up; its rear hatch was festooned with bumper stickers. One read, We Drove the Alien Highway. Another, ET Come Home! Next to the van were six piles of clothing: civilian pants and shirts made of polyester, flip-flops, sandals, and sneakers. Even over 5,000 years, Hunter knew these clothes represented the worst in American tourist wear. The metal tag on the rear of the van contained a collection of numbers. Above them, the word Nevada.
Hunter put it all together. The dusty van, the corny bumper stickers, the trashy outer wear. This was an undercover Spetsnaz team that had successfully stolen into the U.S.
But why?
And why was Hunter one of them?
They walked… and walked… and walked, across the desert, leaving the Caravan by a ditch and burying their trashy civilian clothes nearby.
It was close to noon and the heat was past unbearable. Hunter was astounded, as he dripped with sweat, how this place — this dizzylando attraction — could seem so real, feel so real, and be so damn hot. He was the last in line, his only saving grace being that for some reason his weapon wa,s not the same size as the huge hand cannons the five men in front of him were carrying. His was a simple AK-47 assault rifle, the standard issue combat weapon for Russian soldiers some 5,000 years before.
On several occasions, the squad leader called them to an abrupt halt, freezing them in place. The leader would then switch on a device he had connected to his weirdo battle helmet. It was a sound amplification gadget. Only once did they take any action as a result of this. He had them all lie flat on the ground as an aircraft of some kind flew overhead nearby. Hunter was in no position to look up and see just what kind of airplane it was, but the sound of its propulsion units sounded very familiar. Jet engines, he thought.
They walked into the early afternoon. There was absolutely no talking among them, and they remained separated about fifteen feet from each other. Hunter was tempted on more than one occasion to sneak the quadtrol from his pocket and take a quick reading. But instinct told him that to be caught with such a device by these characters might lead to bad things. He knew after the last ride that death was a distinct possibility within the dizzylando. He decided to bide his time and pick his spot.
They reached the bottom of a small mountain range and finally, the leader gave the signal that they could take a break. Hunter began chugging his water as if he was carrying an unlimited supply but quickly stopped himself when he saw the others were simply sipping off their canteens, savoring every drop. Still, there was no conversation between them. Whatever mission these men were on, Hunter got the definite impression that they knew what they were about to do, inside and out, and thus talking about anything was unnecessary, which was good for him. He had no idea what he would say if they had asked him a question or simply wanted to chat.