Target: Point Zero Read Free Page A

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