Hercules Chen, Zero Hunter: Toroka VS Mecha-Tsuyo, Part 13 of 17

Umihara Shou seeks to forge a weapon capable of felling Toroka, but the materials to create such a device lay in despicable hands. Then, Fast Freddie must contend with the reality of their task.

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This is Part 13 of Hercules Chen, Zero Hunter: Toroka VS Mecha-Tsuyo. If you’d like to avoid spoilers, read Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12 first.

Content warnings: violence, gun violence, death, mild swearing, creeps, Nazis.

The Drowned Captain.

THURSDAY AFTERNOON, JULY 29, 1943
DEPARTMENT THREE WAREHOUSE
SHANGHAI, OCCUPIED CHINA

//translated from Japanese//

The Nazi warehouse was chaos; the countless scrambling bodies and stacked crates created a miserable throbbing deep in Umihara's skull. It was the worst parts of a scrapyard and wet market combined, except its wares were weapons of death, stacked in towers, walls, and collapsed piles all the way to the soaring sheet metal roof.

“They will find it soon,” Many Guns Messner assured him in his native German. Umihara had not spoken the gutteral language in years, but it came back to him quickly.

They watched Messner’s men, a gaggle of haggard native Chinese, dirty and sweaty in soiled jumpsuits and bright red armbands, swarm the cavernous warehouse, poring over every sealed crate.

Messner towered over Umihara at nearly two meters tall, a broad white man with a thick brown beard and scheming eyes tucked under a heavy brow. The German did not dress like he was Department Three's liaison to the Society in China, but rather like the black marketeer and criminal he had been before the war. Messner reveled in the reputation he had built for himself and used the name his enemies had given him like a title of nobility. 'Many Guns' was known for the Mausers he carried on each hip, the Hi-Powers tucked under his armpits, the derringer in each boot, and the sturdy American-made Ithaca 37 shotgun he was leaning on like a cane, as well as for his propensity to use them.

“Hello! Find it!” Messner yelled. He tried again in Shanghainese, screeching the syllables over the din. His hand moved to the broom-handle Mauser grip on his right hip. His men ignored the words but saw the move. They shoved at one another and became frantic in their search. Messner smirked and turned to the wincing captain.

“Running around like a bunch of monkeys,” he grunted. “Damn Chinese are not good for anything.”

“Perhaps...” Umihara said, only for the German to cut him off.

“When Adler telephoned me, I could not believe he would transfer anything to an Asiatic,” Messner said. “Sounds like you saved his ass over Rangoon. Those Flying Tigers can bite.”

“The Flying Tigers?” Umihara wondered before realizing what had happened. He told the German: “I am not Takamoto.”

Messner snorted, then popped up, rigid. He pulled his shotgun up and casually leveled it at Umihara's abdomen.

“Who are you, yellow man?” Messner wondered. The throbbing in Umihara's head faded away, replaced by the heat of anger. His back cracked and he stood up straight. He ignored the shotgun and seethed at Messner in the man's own barbaric language:

“I am Umihara Shou, admiral of the Imperial Japanese Navy, rightful captain of Mecha-Tsuyo, creator of the Ebisenshi, colleague of Sparteführer Jakob von Oberndorf of the First Arm, and jitte of the Black Dragon Society. And I am here for what is owed me.”

Messner glared for a long moment, then lowered his shotgun.

“Umihara. I know your name. We met once, years back,” he said.

“I would remember that,” Umihara replied. Sweat beaded on his temples. The old pain was fraying the edges of his thoughts. He was grateful he had convinced the sycophant Eigami, Takamoto's hobbled spy, to remain aboard the ship. He could not have the Ax Hand getting word of his frailty.

“I doubt you would. Back then, I was but a lowly member of the First Arm, far below your lofty views. I ran into you when I was in charge of transporting the first combat panzerritters to Spain. You instructed me on how to secure them.”

Umihara remembered the day, but not the man. The First Arm had been in chaos trying to get their squadron of their prototype walking armor into the field. Himmler was insistent on demonstrating the panzerritter to his strutting Führer. The subsequent massacre at Badajoz secured a Francoist victory and praise for von Oberndorf, as well as Umihara's chance to return home.

“With your help, the battle was won,” Umihara told him, trying to appeal to the Nazi's ego.

“I only followed orders, I fought no battle,” Messner told him, then winked and added, “And with you all out of the factory, I was able to sell some of the old blueprints on the side. I don't know if the Italians ever used the designs, but I certainly used their money.”

Umihara's eyes went wide. How could this man speak so casually of treason?

“Calm down, it's not like I sold them to the English,” he laughed. He watched his men scrambling over crates with dissatisfaction. His grin slid off his face. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Messner hefted his shotgun and fired. A sunbeam cut through warehouse where his buckshot had punched through the roof. Umihara's hearing aid screamed in his ears, worsening his headache. Messner's men stopped in their tracks, staring and petrified.

Messner cleared his throat then shouted an order in Chinese. The workers scattered, searching different piles of goods. The German shook his head and chuckled, then turned his attention back to Umihara.

“They are looking for your cargo in crates the size of dog cages, as if it could possibly fit in them,” he said. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “What do you need four sets of Junkers Jumo One-Zero-Nine-Zero-Zero-Four-H's for? A new squadron for Takamoto?”

“It will not be a squadron,” Umihara snapped. He was growing impatient with this man.

“A single plane, then, with eight jet engines? Surely not a bomber, those fighter burners would rattle her to pieces. A small bird, and sturdy, faster than anything to ever fly. It will not turn you know, and it would run into its own bullets and rockets.”

Umihara let him speculate, and the German continued:

“It would be a missile, impossible to shoot from the sky. Eight engines would eat fuel like a wolf, so it would be too short-ranged to be a scout... Some sort of piloted explosive ram, I would say. With eight Junkers Jumos, you might be able to hole an American carrier, through and through.”

“It should, at the very least,” Umihara let slip.

“What could you be hunting larger than that?” Messner wondered.

Umihara snorted. The Society's censors were thorough; news of Toroka had not escaped the home islands. He clenched his jaw and sealed his lips.

“Fine, do not tell me,” Messner huffed. He changed the subject: “You are an engineer, yes?”

“And an admiral in the Imperial Japanese Navy,” Umihara told him. He was sure the German's next words would be as treasonous as the rest of them had been.

“And I am a businessman. If not for the exchange of resources for innovations, we would be communists, would we not?”

“What is it you want, Mister Messner?”

“Simply an exchange of goods,” the German replied. An excited cheer sounded from a distant tower of crates. His workers were all pointing at a series of long wooden boxes, each as large as a rowboat. “You are taking something from me. I should have something in return.”

“You are an exchange agent between two governments...” Umihara objected, only for Messner to cut him off once more.

“I hold seventy thousand pieces of inventory between this warehouse and seven others. There are tanks and machine guns, jet fighters and submarines, cannons and missiles and panzerritters. It would be impossible to keep track of one hundred percent of the materiel I possess. Your request came as I am preparing to outfit an entire air fleet. Perhaps your engines got lost in the shuffle. Perhaps you did. Make me an offer, yellow man. And perhaps you will build your plane after all.”

Umihara was shaking. Rage filled his body, clawing for superiority over the old pain that was wracking his eyes, joints, and head. He had no words for the cretin. Behind Messner, the German's crew had assembled, several dozen dirty, sweating men in stained clothes. Umihara doubted they would respond to Japanese, but the crowbars and claw hammers they carried spoke in a universal dialect.

He sighed and looked around, finally settling on three large crates, each standing taller and wider than upright coffins. One was partially open, and he could see the curve of a steel pauldron through the crack. He knew those angles, and what the boxes contained. If the armor inside was destined for the Society or for Nazi forces in Asia, or simply something Messner had acquired for himself, Umihara could not say. However, none could dispute that he understood the weapons platforms, perhaps better than any man alive.

“I could teach you how to modify these,” Umihara offered, pointing at the boxed panzerritter armor. “They would be sealed against gas weapons and silent when moving. You could prevent them from losing stabilization during combat.”

“Modifying panzerritters?” Messner snorted, playing with a thick golden ring on his right hand as he spoke, “I have been tinkering with these since Spain. Mine are gyroscopically-stabilized, sealed with rubberized chain mail, and fitted with oiled ball bearing joints for silent operation with full range of motion. I suppose you would teach me how to pressurize them for underwater operation as well? Yellow man, I had copies of your Ebisenshi designs three days after you delivered them to your Navy.”

“What do you want?” the captain asked.

“I heard you died. When they brought you back and you had designs in your head,” Messner said. “I want the machine you drafted in Hell. I want the Mecha-Tsuyo.”

“You do not know what you are talking about,” Umihara snapped.

“That is what leaving here will cost you,” Messner said. He took a long step forward, into the single spot of sunlight in the huge, dank warehouse. His men advanced in step with him.

“I have been to the black, Mister Messner,” Umihara told him. He held his ground. The old pain coiled tight, throbbing against his alien defiance. “It would welcome me back.”

Before the Nazi could retort, a jarring human scream pierced the tense air. Machine gun fire, a German MP40 by its sound, echoed between the crates, and a half-dozen new sunbeams peeked through the roof.

Messner’s toughs bunched up, panicking, holding onto their hammers and crowbars with white knuckles. The Nazi threw his shotgun's strap around his neck and racked a fresh shell into it while barking orders to his men, who acted as if deaf.

The scream sounded again, closer, just beyond the next labyrinthine wall of crates. It was not a shriek of pain, or a shout of anger. It exultant, instinctual, animal.

Someone came flying into view, and Messner's blast took it dead-center, spraying blood over milled pine. The corpse hit the floor like a shattered clay pigeon and lay still. The soiled jumpsuit and red arm band marked it one of Messner’s own.

“Ah, Sauarbeit,” he sighed. He barked an order in Chinese. A bold half-dozen of them hefted their tools and charged around the crates, confronting the hidden intruder.

“What is this?” Umihara stammered.

“Eleven Bullets Gang,” Messner grated, as if a captain of the Imperial Navy knew the slightest thing about Chinese criminal organizations. The Nazi racked his shotgun and said: “They have been haranguing me for months.”

The sounds of an intense fight bounced between the mountains of rough pine boards. Wheezing, popping joints, cracking bones, the thud of skulls against filthy concrete.

“What did you do?”

“What did I do? I wanted to make money with them, but your Army put their leader in front of a firing squad instead of locking her up,” he snapped. “They were capitalists, but you turned them into idealists. You forced them to become rebels, their strings are held by British officials, American triads, and Shaolin priests.”

The scream sounded again, closer. Messner's remaining men edged away.

“Go, hide,” Muller told the captain, “My business would be hampered were I allow these Hurensöhne to kill you.”

Umihara glared at the Nazi for a second, but another scream joined the first, then a dozen more. His hearing aid crackled and squealed with feedback as the cries rose in pitch. They were just on the other side of the crate mountain, howling and shrieking in undulating tones that Umihara felt in his gut. The freakish, primal cries sent adrenaline flowing through his old veins, soaking into his marrow and urging him to run.

“It is a trick,” Messner snarled.

He barked something at his trembling men, but it did nothing to steel their resolve. Sweat was pouring from them, and their weapons shook in their hands. One crowbar clattered to the concrete floor and its wielder bolted. He made it six strides before Messner's Mauser barked, drilling a round through his back and sending him sprawling.

The howl was growing more desperate. Reptilian instincts were awakening in the deepest recesses of Umihara's mind. He had to get away from it, he had to find somewhere dark and warm to hide from what was coming.

But Umihara was a man of science. One quick breath and he realized what was happening and what he needed to do.

The captain pulled his hearing aid plugs out of his ears. The horrible sound immediately ceased, replaced by a decelerating heartbeat, and the anxious compulsions melted away as deliberately as they had arrived.

It was an audio weapon. Somehow, the Eleven Bullets attackers were able to project shedding vortexes of infrasound from their vocal cords. Perhaps an expansion on Mongolian or Tibetan throat singing techniques? It would be an interesting weapon to adapt for Mecha-Tsuyo.

A Chinese man bounced into him, knocking Umihara to the floor and the contemplative thoughts from his mind. The captain's knee slammed onto the filthy concrete, rattling his body with the old pain.

All around him, the alien cry having a traumatic impact on brain function and nervous system of everyone listening. Messner's men, berated by the sonic assault, were falling into chaos. The Nazi was shouting, seething and red and pouring sweat, firing his shotgun into his own men. They ignored him, dying witless as they retreated from the approaching sound.

A man in gold and white robes appeared around the tower of crates. His head was shaved bald, with ritualistic scars arrayed across his forehead and climbing over his scalp. His mouth was wide open and his throat undulated with beguiling waves and rhythms. The white silken beard that hung to his waist pulsed with the unearthly cry. He carried a golden staff, its head a large ring intertwined with smaller circlets that bounced with his every step.

He was a Buddhist, one of the warrior-monks from the mountain temples. Umihara had heard of them, but he had disregarded the tales as those of hermits cloaking themselves with defensive falsehoods. The monk gazed upon the panicked workers and the enraged Nazi, then attacked. He moved like a ghost and was upon them in an instant, continuing his haunting cry.

The monk lashed out with his staff, knocking Messner's shotgun from his hands with ease. He cycled through stances as if asleep, throwing men off their feet and bashing in skulls as simply as he would sweep a floor. Messner disregarded his shotgun as quickly as he'd lost it, pulling a Mauser from his hip holster. The monk caught it in the great gold ring on the end of his staff, twisting the Nazi's wrist as he fired. The wayward bullets felled another pair of Messner's men. One brutal tug wrenched the pistol away from Messner, sending it clattering to Umihara's feet.

The captain could not hope to hurt such a man with such a weapon so he left it where it lay. He eased himself to his feet, favoring his damaged knee. He put the melee behind him and limped toward the propped-open coffin crates. He slid between the lid and the box, pulling it shut over himself.

His last glimpse of the chaos before him showed a wave of bare-chested gangsters, tattooed, ear-muffed, and wielding knives fit to butcher men, charging from behind the howling monk and rushing the Nazi’s crew. The first few fell as Messner unloaded his Browning Hi-Powers into the mob. A second wave of Messner's workers had come crashing through a side door with hatchets and hammers in hand, cotton plugging their ears.

The two waves slammed together as the black enclosed Umihara.

He worked to control his breathing. Silence and absolute darkness riled the old pain up, its hissing insistence reminding him of every second of crushing death he'd experienced at the bottom of the sea. The captain recited his favorite haiku, letting the familiar words and rhythm overcome the beating of his own heart and the wicked stab of the pain in his eyes.

In the five years since Umihara had left Germany, the First Arm done little to change the panzerritter's design. He hinged the armor open and slipped inside. It was built for a taller man, but he could still reach the controls. The armor was warm and familiar, like a favorite coat. His thin arms slid right into the rig, and his feet settled into the boots. Umihara wrestled against the suit but was relieved to find the key in the ignition. One twist kicked the diesel engine on its back to life.

Around him, the world sped up. His arms moved freely as the hydraulics took control and accelerated his every movement. He had the strength of ten men. Umihara squeezed his excruciating eyes shut and took another meditative breath. He reached one steel-clad hand up and lowered his face mask.

He had died in the dark; he had been reborn in the dark.

Umihara swung his arms outward, and the crate around him shattered like porcelain. Jagged boards flew away, skewering gangsters and Messner's henchmen alike. Umihara silently cursed the tiny eye slits that left him half-blind as he waded into the bloody battle.

Blades and clubs skipped off the steel plating. Umihara knew it must have been making an awful din, but his ravaged eardrums paid it no heed. He swung his arms back and forth, hammering those soft bodies that stepped within his reach. Umihara knew how hard a panzerritter could hit: each squishy impact that shuddered through the suit was another man dead.

A sudden jolt sent Umihara reeling. The old pain screamed behind his eyes. Nothing short of a rammpanzer could so stagger a panzerritter. Gold flashed in the captain's vision.

The Shaolin monk stood before him, whirling his golden staff through the air faster than could be seen. Only a shimmer gave any hint of its passage. The monk yelled something unheard and lashed out again, targeting the high steel collar protecting Umihara's neck. The staff struck with the force of a battering ram, strong enough to take off a man's head.

The monk was trying to kill him.

The drowned captain flexed his hydraulic muscles. He was no small man who could be pushed around. He was a man who had forged monsters and defeated death. Umihara lumbered toward the dangerous foe, plowing through duels and brawls, smashing any man lacking the sense to clear his path. Each of the panzerritter's plodding steps gained speed and he built momentum like a freight train.

The monk had no choice but to give ground. He leapt like he weighed less than a sheaf of paper, floating high. He landed on the far of the chaos, staff cracking skulls, to assist his own fighters.

The brawl between Messner's men and the Eleven Bullets gangsters was gorily one-sided, spilling in front of Umihara as the Eleven Bullets men butchered the glorified warehouse workers that rushed in, thinking themselves reinforcements. The captain had lost sight of Many Guns Messner in the mayhem, but every so often a knife-wielding thug would fall to ground, clutching a chest punctured by a small-caliber round, or a fountain of red and a spray of pink mist would erupt from the chaos as a bullet found a ripe head to burst.

Umihara lurched into the madness, seeking the close the distance with the monk. If he could silence the man’s cries, Messner could rally his men and force the invaders out.

The shortest distance to his target intersected the gangster flank, drawing their ire. Several of them had tried to make heroes of themselves, convinced their puny blades could find a soft spot in Umihara’s armor. Each of those little men had died quickly, though far from painlessly. To a panzerritter they were gnats, easily ignored and able to be squashed by an errant swat.

Finally, he had cleared a path between himself and the monk. The captain did not wait.

Umihara fought with a fury he had never known. Each jackhammer punch could reduce the interloper to raw meat, if only he could connect.

It was like fighting water.

The Shaolin monk flowed around his swings, popping up inside his reach to probe the armor with a flurry of his own rabbit punches or dancing away to attack with his staff. Punching hardened steel seemed to cause no damage to the bald man's bare hands. Neither of them could harm the other.

Umihara could see the frustration on the monk's face. The man considered himself a master and yet his decades of training were humbled by one crippled man with a modicum of technology. The days of honorable warriors were over. Takamoto, the twirling old Buddhist, they were becoming obsolete. The trenches of the last great war had seen to that.

Science, and the men who mastered it, would inherit the battlefield.

The monk slid out of Umihara's reach and flitted away, again lighter than air. He floated backwards to light upon a crate at the foot of the looming tower of weaponry. He barked orders to his bloodied men. The Eleven Bullets thugs immediately bolted, trailing red as they dashed out of sight into the jumble of the Nazi warehouse.

Umihara surveyed the scene. Messner stood with his four remaining men, shuddering as he tried to catch his absent breath. His khaki shirt was torn at the shoulder, his boot split at the toe. A trickle of blood ran from a lacerated eyebrow through a swollen eye and down a puffing cheek before disappearing into the clot-matted mess that was his thick beard. He had lost all of his guns in the fury, save for one stubby derringer he kept clenched in his right hand. The minuscule gun was slick from the red leaking from Messner's split knuckles.

Many Guns Messner yelled something at the stoic monk, pointing at the door his reinforcements had piled through, then at his broken wristwatch. Even deaf, Umihara understood Messner's meaning. The Nazi had more men on the way, men eager to take Shaolin lives, something the monk must have known.

Messner's men had fared worse than he. Of the four still standing, only two were armed, and them only with a broken hammer handle and a fillet knife taken from a dead gangster. Each was swaying in place, lost in the scarlet world around them. Dozens more lay dead, dying, and wounded. Those that could move already had, dragging their broken bodies to the periphery of the battle.

The monk stood up straight and gave Umihara a knowing smile. He leaned on his staff, suddenly weary. The wrinkles on his face betrayed his age, and he assumed the stooped back of a penitent holy man.

Messner shouted at him, spitting with wroth as he gathered his discarded Hi-Powers off the bloody floor and fed fresh magazines into them. Umihara watched the monk. That smile never wavered. The old man was stalling. It had not been an assassination attempt: it was a distraction.

The Nazi leveled both pistols at the monk and fired in tandem, emptying both magazines. The Shaolin twirled his staff before him. It was faster than the eye could see, whirling into a gleaming golden shield that deflected all of Messner's shots. The bullets themselves ricocheted with a furious energy, careening from the staff into crates or through windows. Wood and glass shattered under the impacts.

The last two bullets flew straight back at Messner, knocking both pistols from his grip with a muted curse.

Messner laughed. Blood leaked from both of his hands, too much to tell if the wounds were superficial or not. His guns were broken, useless. Still he cackled. The monk stopped his spinning staff and leaned on it, curiously studying the mad German.

Umihara felt ill. He could not allow this zealot to succeed in whatever foul plan he had, but he was loathe to help a man like Messner. Perhaps a compromise was in order.

The captain surged forward on hydraulic muscles, stomping through squirming and still men alike. The distance between himself and the monk closed in an instant. He punched at the limber man, but the monk slipped around the swing. The golden staff hammered against him for his efforts, but Umihara persisted.

Blow after blow rained down on Umihara, but he did not give up an inch. The monk seemed to be tiring, though the captain felt invigorated. It had been many years since his body had felt like anything other than an enemy to him, since he had felt strong, and vital.

The tide was tuning, and the monk's dark eyes began looking for avenues of escape.

Umihara pulled his right fist back, winding up for a rocketing strike to the monk's head. The Shaolin man lashed out with his staff, catching the armor in the armpit. Umihara felt the impact through the flexible joint, and felt pistons snap under the assault. The arm froze in place.

The monk ducked backward, then cut back inside Umihara's reach and sent a barrage of blows against his face mask and chest plate. The vibrations shook Umihara's eyes in their sockets.

The captain was angry. He was hot, he was deaf, he was tired, and the old pain was just waking up. If the Shaolin man wanted to battle, he would.

Light gleamed as the golden staff caught light. It arced high overhead, a lazy comet dropping from the heavens to collide with the armored captain's ringing head. Umihara punched low with his left arm, an organ-bursting glow that found only air. But as the monk swung downward with his own strike, Umihara twisted at the waist. The staff collided with his immobile right hand, crashing into the thick gauntlet with full force. The monk's eyes went wide; his staff bent, folding over the panzerriter armor.

There was only an instant to take advantage of the distraction, to force the monk to run. Umihara lurched forward, slamming his armored mask into his enemy's face. The captain couldn't hear the sound, but the two-fold impact told him that the man’s nose had collapsed from the strike.

The monk staggered backward, abandoning his bent staff. Blood spilled across white beard and robes. Just as the Shaolin man seemed to get his bearings, he went rigid, his spine erect and arching before going completely limp and falling to the floor, face-first. Red was seeping through a wound near the small of his back.

Many Guns Messner stood over him. His bloodied right hand was leveled at his waist as smoke curled from the fat golden ring on his middle finger. He was grinning.

Umihara lifted the face mask up. The copper and ozone, the cordite and ammonia hit him first. It was the stinging, clinging smell of recent battle. He use his good arm to pry open the panzerritter armor. With the chest and thigh panels open, it was only a matter of wriggling to free himself. When he was able to study his surroundings again, the smell was gone.

An army of Chinese workers had appeared and were already mopping the blood up. Bodies of the Eleven Bullets gang members, both the wounded and the dead, were tossed into one hopper, while the workers' comrades were gathered up with care and taken away, one-by-one. A team of men armed with pencils and paper were inventorying the warehouse. Messner had realized the monk's game, as well. If the gangsters who'd escape had stolen anything, he'd know what it was soon enough.

Umihara found the bloodied German sitting atop an artillery shell that had fallen on its side. The warhead was over a meter across. Messner dragged on his cigarette and began working a tiny wire brush through his ring. It was a miniature pinhole revolver, small enough to be concealed in the garish accessory. The bullet couldn't have been any wider that three millimeters diameter, which meant it would have had to have been laced with something volatile to cause the instant reaction the monk had suffered after being shot.

Looking at the Nazi, Umihara was sure he held no compunctions about using poison on any foe.

In front of Messner, a trio of Chinese men were caring for the unconscious monk. They'd cut his majestic robes away, leaving the fit but thin old man to lay nude on the dirty, bloody concrete floor, covered only by bristling steel cables that bound his arms to his sides and his legs together. Messner was grinning, talking at Umihara and waving him over. The captain begrudgingly pushed his ear plugs in and activated his hearing aid.

Sound assaulted him, driving the old pain into a rage: yelling workers, groaning wounded, retching cleaners, and the gravel-tongued rasp of a triumphant German savage.

“ - has been hounding me for months!” he hooted at Umihara. “And who takes him down but a tourist, and a beggar tourist at that!”

The captain held his tongue. He had already lingered in Shanghai for far longer than his mind could take. The old pain was banging against the inside of his skull like a debt collector pounding on a wooden door.

“Did you find what they stole, Herr Messner?” Umihara asked, changing the subject.

“Who said anything about 'stole?'” the German guffawed, though his face was far more serious than the laugh was meant to appear. Whatever it was, even a bloviating mercenary such as he was afraid to admit his negligence. He hurried to cover up his lapse, though Umihara had already seen through him. Messner continued: “No, these fools tried to see me killed and paid for their mistake with their own blood. They failed in their mission. Completely.”

Umihara let him have this one, though he knew the truth. Instead he pointed to the unconscious monk, asking:

“Who is he?”

“He is called Fan Jin, and the price Tokyo put on his head could buy me a Swiss mansion,” Messner said. He hopped up off the shell and gazed down at his prisoner. “So you need not give me the Mecha-Tsuyo blueprints for now.”

“What?” Umihara started.

“Save them for me, for another day. Fan is gift enough for now.”

“I was never - !” Umihara objected but was rendered speechless as another of Messner's men arrived bearing a glass gravity-drip bottle, a needle, and a rubber tube. It was the word printed on the bottle that snared the captain's attention and finally roused the old pain to its full, enraged, ravenous state. He nearly choked on his own dry tongue.

“Ah, a man familiar with morphine,” Messner intoned, seeing where Umihara's gaze had landed. A cold sweat seeped through every pore on the captain's wracked body.

“No, I...” Umihara attempted. Messner's knowing smiling was at once amused, sympathetic, and cruel. A machine gun chattered somewhere outside the building, but the Nazi paid it no mind.

“It is said you may find anything in Shanghai, Captain Umihara, even the stuff of dreams,” he hissed, almost serpentine. “The Junkers Jumo engines you requested are already en route to your ship. They should be ready to travel within six hours. Enough time to find whatever trouble a man would want.”

Umihara stared ravenous at the morphine drip as they drove it into Fan Jin's arm.

He stayed silent, but the old pain was screaming behind his eyes.

The Zero Hunter.

SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 31, 1943
F.A.S. BASE “FREDDIE”
BDENIE ISLAND

“Are you sure?” Blue asked Hye again. She scowled at him so fiercely that the smile melted off of his face. Seeing him cowed, she nodded.

“There is nothing else it could be,” she confirmed. “Look, see?”

She shoved the enlarged photographs in Blue’s face. He raised his hands and took a step back.

“Didn't mean to cause a fuss,” he conceded.

“I'll take a look,” Hercules said. He stretched, stood from his seat near the card table Hye was working at. He took the photo of Toroka out of her hand, along with the magnifying glass she had been using.

“There,” she said, “In the gap just behind its forelimb.”

Hercules held the image out at arm's length. It was one of the pictures she'd captured with her telephoto lens. The great beast was wallowing in the churned lagoon, eagerly waiting to see if their planes would again descend close enough to close its jaws around them. If Hercules squinted, he could barely see a small, white, angular interruption in the pattern between Toroka's scales, where its arm-like front legs met its torso.

“That could be anything,” Hercules said.

“Which means it could be a Type 42 Giji Tori rocket. Look,” Hye insisted. She held out the magnifying glass and Hercules took it to study the small anomaly.

“It is blurry, but it could be,” he relented.

“Let me have a look at that,” Blue said. He took both the photo and the magnifying glass and inspected the image himself with Oxford and Oakley peering over his shoulders.

“The Giji Tori is used to designate bombardment zones for fleets, not to track a mobile target,” Hercules pointed out.

“With three receivers triangulating and the signal continuously pinging, it could be done,” Hye told him. Hercules frowned. The Black Dragons owned entire nations, half the islands in the Pacific, an army that spanned an eighth of the Earth's circumference, and whole fleets. And even if the feat had been impossible, the Ax Hand's insistence was infamous. His people would find a way to make it work.

“I concur with the Specialist's conclusion,” Oxford declared. He pointed at a small dot on the already-minuscule white rectangle, saying: “This is the transmission relay.”

“Bloody hell,” Hercules cursed, channeling his father. The Dragons would have a leg up on them in the hunt for Toroka, even with all the coastal spotters in China.

“Crikey, a rocket hit right in the pit,” Blue winced, rubbing his own underarm in sympathy for the monster.

“Did you see what our Randalls did to it?” Oakley asked him. “Not even a scratch. I'm surprised their rocket had the juice to stick in its scales.”

“It looks as if it is pinned between two of the... what did you call them? Ah, yes, two of its osteoderms,” Oxford added. “They needn't have pierced its armor at all.”

“But we still got to,” Oakley pointed out.

“Do we have any other ideas?” Blue wondered.

“Well if you can't beat it...” Tusker begain.

“Join it?” Hercules concluded.

“No, you send 'im away,” Tusker said.

“Ain't no way to fight it off, that's what we've been yammering about,” Oakley snapped rolling her eyes at the old man.

“You're thinking like a Black Dragon, lass,” Tusker told her. “The way I see it, they're trying to hurt the thing and send it west, into China or Russia. That's why they got Mecha-Tsuyo patrolling the coast. They figure that if they give the thing a big enough knock on the chin and it'll run. Problem is, they tried that already and now it knows it can take their best shot. Animals do respond to fear, yeah, but that's not the only way to motivate them. If you can't scare them out of hiding, there's other options.”

“Such as?” Plumber asked.

“A lure,” Tusker told him. “When I took down the Mahatmanzala man-eater, I ran an army through half the jungle and burned the rest to stumps. The bastard didn't show his face ‘til I staked a hobbled steer out for an easy kill.”

“So you want to trick it into going where you want it?” Blue asked, skepticism undercutting his question.

“Aye, we make it think there's greener pastures elsewhere. We just keep the drongo swimming in circles, away from everyone, whether they’re Chinese, Russians, or Japanese.”

“Toroka eats whales,” Hercules said.

“And that's why we need a whale call, mate,” Tusker exclaimed.

“I could do that,” Plumber spoke up from the back. He was scratching Lobster behind the ears. The fluffy white cat was sitting on the big man’s belly, purring and swishing his fluffy white tail across the tattoos on Plumber's face.

“What do you suggest?” Hye asked.

“We have three buoy rockets left and I could modify them to project sub-sonic waves, like whale songs,” Plumber said.

“That might work,” Hye said. “But they are impossible to perfectly replicate.”

“Don't have to be perfect, sweetheart,” Tusker said. “Just good enough to make ‘im hungry.”

“Don't call her sweetheart, you fat old tub,” Oakley snapped.

“Thank you,” Hye said.

“Sorry, Miss Eun,” Tusker muttered, his blustering bravado instantly drained away.

“I can get started now,” Plumber said. “It should not take too long.”

“I can help you modulate the sound when you are ready,” Hye told him.

“Sounds like a plan,” Plumber said. He set Lobster on the ground and pulled his feet off the table, but the fat cat jumped right back up into his lap. He chuckled, then set him on his shoulder and stood.

The big man ambled out of the room with Lobster perched like a parrot, happily swishing his tail.

“So what do we do?” Hercules asked. “We can draw the creature away from civilians, but then what?”

“That might be enough,” Oxford said. “We needn't kill everything that threatens us. If we can drive it away from populated areas, we have accomplished our goal.”

“But we should still be ready for the worst,” Oakley said.

“We're the shepherds, mate,” Blue added. “Sometimes you only need to fling a stone at a dingo, but sometimes you need to scalp 'em.”

“I take your point,” Oxford relented.

“What does Tennessee have to say?” Oakley asked. The Research and Development bureau, headquartered at Zoo Base in Oak Ridge, came up with all of the Office’s amazing weaponry. If anyone could come up with something to take Toroka down, it would be General Gonzales and his people.

“From their last communique with Saltchuck, it seems as if Zoo Base is still postulating solutions,” Oxford replied.

“That's what they said days ago,” Hercules grated.

“They have been out of sorts, it seems,” Oxford pointed out. They officials nodded. Zoo Base was dealing with the aftermath of a traitor and defector. Things would take a while to settle there.

“Then it is lucky we have the Ruskies,” Saltchuck announced. He had emerged from the radio room beaming. “Vinogradova kept her end. They're sending us a weapon now.”

“They had the I-A bombs the whole time?” Hercules asked.

“They had to find them,” Saltchuck said. “But they are en route now. The weapons should be here within the day.”

“Rocket Airways?” Oakley asked. They knew the Reds had a DIVERT rocket platform, but no one outside their bureau knew where it was.

“No, they didn't say,” Saltchuck replied. “We must be ready for anything.”

“What is the nature of this weapon? A bomb, a rocket?” Oxford demanded.

“Look, they contacted me via encrypted Morse code, there wasn't much in the way of conversation,” Saltchuck said. “Like I said, we have to be ready for anything.”

“So what do we do?” Oakley asked.

“Ready yourselves,” Saltchuck answered. “We will keep Jolly Green and Lily Liver flight-ready at all times. Pilots, post up in here and sleep. Keep an ear out for the radio and the radar. Gunners, you and I will be working on the planes. Eun, keep studying that thing. Work with Plumber on the lure.”

“Sleep? How could I possibly sleep when - !” Oxford objected, only for Saltchuck to shut him down.

“Then help us, help Eun, read a blasted book. Whatever you do, I need you fresh and ready to sit in the cockpit the second you hear that radio squawk. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Oxford stammered, so unaccustomed to being dressed down that the Canadian had rendered him speechless.

“Then we get to work. Blue, Oakley, off your cans.”

Hercules nodded, electing to keep his mouth shut. The others filed out of the briefing room. Oxford paced the long room for a moment, then spun on his heel and went for the door as well.

“If you will excuse me, I am going to pay a visit downstairs,” he said, rubbing the knots out of his knuckles as he spoke. Hercules nodded, and Oxford continued: “I shall return with tea and cots.”

The Indian pilot shut the door behind him. Hercules knew that 'downstairs' meant he was going to work out his stress on the punching bag for a while. They'd tried to spar together in the past, but it seemed that Oxford was only really satisfied when he landed a punch. Hercules had seen how hard his wingman could hit; there wasn't a chance he'd let one of those haymakers tickle his chin.

That left Hercules, his thoughts, an engrossed Hye, and a silent radio.

He stood and stretched, working the muscles in his legs and back using the poses taught to him by the Indian yogis during training. Each stretch required discipline and patience. He controlled his breath and cleared his mind, his only considerations the individual fibers of his body.

When he finished his routine he found Hye still buried in her papers, murmuring to herself as she scribbled notes on the photographs with a grease pencil.

He wondered for a moment if she would welcome a distraction, but then thought better of it. Instead he carefully lifted the chairs and moved them up against the walls of the briefing room. He was careful not to let their legs drag against the floor. With a large circle cleared out, he had room to practice his stances. He removed his shoes and bowed low toward the southwest, to his teachers.

The Distant Bells family of martial arts was one based in the old science. Before there were joules and meters, the old science measured in breaths, sweat, and pain. Its understanding of human physics and physicality was instinctual and ritual, rather than derived.

The shaolin philosophies were worlds unto themselves, requiring a harmonic alignment of body, mind, and will. Some of Hercules’ teachers applied the principles of their Buddhism to it, but the arts were far older than that religion. Their mastery required no system of belief beyond an understanding of one's self.

It was here that Hercules found his first challenge. His name as a pupil was 'Soaring Stone,' for the Eighteen Teachers saw him as an unwanting, unwanted burden, as natural in their temple as a stone in the sky. It was only Wong Fei-Song, their most senior brother, who convinced them to keep him.

Hercules took to the name as an act of defiance, a rebuke against their gray hair and locked minds. His whole life had been rebellion, and it was a hard path to leave.

He had fought against his father, whom he saw as naive and weak.

He had fought against his mother, who had ignored him for reminding her too much of his father. She saw in him the reflection of a weak, artistic man, who, despite his weakness, had still been able to break the heart of the ruthless gangster queen of the most cut-throat city in China.

He had fought against the Japanese, who'd raped and burned their way through his home to take away everything he knew.

Then he fought against the monks, for telling him all his fighting had simply been against himself. Years of hard labor and harder punches and a thousand times collapsing to the training floor slowly, bitterly ended that battle.

He took in a long breath into his mouth, then slowly exhaled through his nostrils over the course of ten seconds. Remembering the frustration that he'd brought to the temple still increased his heart rate, even six years later. He inhaled again, then let it go. His rhythms slowed and he regained control.

Behind his closed eyes, his enemies gathered. He twisted between his forms, blocking ethereal punches and kicks with his shins and forearms. Armored and armed shadows came after him, but he writhed between their attacks, be they hand, sword, bayonet, or pistol.

Hercules tried his best to stay silent, controlling his breath and exertions. Sweat was already beading on his forehead, dripping past his eyes to patter the concrete floor.

He risked a glance at Hye, but she was still engrossed in her findings. As far as she was concerned, he could be nude fighting actual opponents rather than specters, it would not have disturbed her.

He unclipped the straps keeping his mother’s butterfly swords in their sheaths and drew the broad daggers. They glinted, mirrored silver under the briefing room's bare bulb lights. He closed his eyes again,

This time, the shadows had faces. Ebisenshi, six-eyed brass monsters, charged him. His blades found the gaps in their armor, slicing hydraulic tubes and wiring, locking the undersea commandos within their metal shells. The bearded Fire Palace monks swarmed in after them, chests bared to display their Black Dragon brands. They sought to best him with their own traitorous Wushu styles, but he had trained under their exiled abbot and knew their tricks. A flash of his blades slapped their hatchets from their hands, and a pommel strike against their skulls left them stumbling away, dazed and beaten. The Kuragarigirudo swooped in, but their poisoned blades only found Chinese steel. He dispatched them as handily as he had on the island, sending them limping back to their masters. Vichy tireurs, Moro pirates, Yakuza thugs, yajirushi, and Imperial soldiers swarmed him from every direction and he countered their every attack.

Hercules could feel strain his chest and shoulders. Days waiting, stuck on the island with his team had left him restless, and he'd worked out his frustrations with practice. He had not worked through the forms so constantly since he was an acolyte at the temple. His breath was heavy in his chest, but he pushed through.

Wong Fei-Song had taught his to confront his fears and frustrations, and in doing so, to best them. He knew tales of the Ax Hand, passed between pilots who'd seen their wingmen slaughtered, from radio operators who'd heard the cries of entire squadrons wiped out in mid-air. The crimson pulse-jet fighter and the maniac behind its controls had become a portent of death.

Hercules had only seen the man in flight once, scything through a distant bomber squadron while Hercules dealt with his minions. He had battled the Ax Hand's students, pale imitations of their mentor's skill, and had downed them. But Hercules had no such delusions that this master taught all he knew. The Ax Hand preferred to stand on his students to lift himself up, rather than enabling them to glorify his legacy by surpassing him.

In his mind, in a dusty circle with a chalk outline and warm sun, the Ax Hand stood before him. Takamoto Haruto stood a few centimeters shorter than Hercules, and was built like a steel cable cobra. The smaller man smirked, cruel and amused. Killing was not necessarily a sport to him, but it was something he took joy in and found to be competitive.

Hercules had read some transcripts of recruiting speeches the Ax Hand had given. He divided the world into a binary system: those strong enough to rule, and those weak enough to die. In his philosophy, it was the strong's duty to cull the weak. Of course the man had shrouded this motivation in racist mysticism, thinking himself some sort of exemplar and crusader, but he killed his own countrymen as easily as he did anyone else.

The Japanese killer assumed a ready stance Hercules recognized: Takamoto's Ax Hand style, a bastardized version of Okinawan karate. His body was turned to the side, legs wide and fists raised, clenched. The Ax Hand rocked on the balls of his feet, stable and unmovable unless he sought to strike. Vipers wrought in ink peaked out from beneath his collar, venomous eyes glaring into Hercules.

Despite the ethereal battleground, Hercules felt fresh sweat beading on his neck and chest. The Ax Hand had killed dozens of men in fair combat using only his empty hands. From the sky, had had slaughtered hundreds, at least. The Ax Hand saw no difference between enemy troops and wounded civilians. If they were able to be killed, he would kill them.

The battlefield upon which he faced Takamoto was clear and vivid on the inside of Hercules' eyelids. A rasping wind tugged at his jumpsuit, whipping his scarf around his neck. The Ax Hand ignored the elements. Hercules drew his blades, the long butterfly daggers dented and notched from decades of parrying swords and hatchets. He twirled them in his hands, loosening the tendons in his elbows and wrists. Reports stated that the Ax Hand could kill with a single punch: Hercules would have to be quicker.

Ax Hand Takamoto would surely be spouting his fascistic, purity-of-blood, pseudo-bushido bollocks were he actually facing his Chinese-English opponent, but in Hercules' mind he stayed silent. He had no words for the killer before him. They were thirty meters apart when the Ax Hand dashed forward, taking off at a sprint toward the fight.

Hercules was taken aback. When facing an armed opponent, one would normally hang back, trying to tire their enemy while probing their assault for openings. For the Ax Hand, it was not so. Hercules watched the killer's infamous fists; they were balled into killing things, able and eager to crush, break, disarm, disembowel. It was then that Hercules' own stance changed: he was not facing an unarmed man.

The Ax Hand, kaiken of the Black Dragons and the deadliest pilot in the Imperial Japanese Navy, halted in place. A shadow washed over him, then over Hercules himself. He staggered backward, staring over Hercules' head.

A massive foot, scaled and clawed, descended from the heavens. Its plated skin was jet black, save for splashes of gold on its jagged, spiked edges. The foot fell with enough force to shake the earth, throwing Hercules' balance. The Ax Hand had nowhere to run. He was crushed where he stood, a titan turned ant.

Toroka towered over Hercules. Its arms were the size of freight trains, its tail so long that it disappeared over the horizon. A mountain range of bony spikes ran from the back of its head to the distant tip of its obfuscated tail. The beast huffed, then extended its fleshy gills, their rosy-pink tentacle fingers grasping at the dry air.

Toroka took no notice of the tiny thing at its feet, far beneath it. It snapped its battleship-shearing jaws together, then reared back and roared. The gale of searing wind was enough to peel the flesh from Hercules' bones. The choking thunderhead of green gas that followed sizzled against his pitted remains. It was as easy as breathing for Toroka to kill a man.

Hercules snapped out of his trance to find himself drenched in cold sweat. He'd plunged one of his butterfly swords straight through the briefing room's wall, burying its tip in solid concrete. The other he'd clutched tight to his body, its razor edge digging into the skin of his shoulder. A red trickle was coursing down his right arm.

“Boxer, come out of it!” Oxford was saying. He snatched a glass of cold water from the table and approached.

“Wait,” Hercules managed to gasp, “I am - !”

He didn't have time to object further before Oxford splashed the frigid liquid into his face. Hercules sputtered, then sheathed his dagger. He wiped the dripping water away with his hand, took two controlled breaths, and regained his composure.

Hye and Oxford were watching him, silent and concerned. Hercules snatched the white handkerchief from Oxford's breast pocket and pressed it against his arm. It bloomed red, but the bleeding stopped quickly. His mother's butterfly swords had been well-honed and cut so clean that the slight wound was already closing.

“Inward battle,” Hercules answered before either of them could ask.

Hye nodded. She had trained in the martial arts and practiced a similar technique. She had run every battle she'd fought in a thousand times through her mind as well. Though Oxford was not a personal adherent to the technique, he was familiar with its use and usefulness. Still, he had never seen his wingman so rattled.

“What is it, chum?” he asked. Hercules pilot slipped his shirt back on, then used his scarf to mop off his dripping sweat and blood and the rest of the icy water. Satisfied that he'd pulled himself back together, he finally spoke:

“What chance do we have against it?”

“You, I? None,” Oxford answered, knowing exactly what had spooked Hercules without having to ask. He was sweaty from his own workout, and had a linen wrap around his right hand. A spot of red marked where he'd split one of his knuckles against the leather punching bag. “That thing considers you and I lesser than germs, if it considers us at all. But you and I, all of us together? We can overcome anything. We are fighting for a cause greater than ourselves.”

“But how?” Hercules asked. He was not interested in philosophy, his concern was the practical. He could take down anything his fists or cannons could damage. With the right tools, he could carve a mountain into a gravestone. He could sink ships and bury armies. But Toroka was beyond what he had been taught to fight.

“It seems we must trust Sergeant Vinogradova, and the Office,” Oxford said.

“Trust,” was Hercules' only response. He let out a controlled breath again, then help Oxford reset the table and chairs in the briefing room.

The pair left Hye to her studies and removed a set of miniature P-38-O and A6M Zero fighters from a drawer. Plumber had whittled the tiny planes from driftwood. Using the models, Hercules and his wingman laid out maneuvers and reconstructed some of their last few dogfights, looking for ways they could better synchronize in the air.

Hercules didn't know how many hours it had been since the team had split up, but when he heard the radio click to life and looked up from the models, the gray overcaster gloom had dimmed to the pitch black of night.

It spat just seven coded letters, then went dead again. Hercules didn't know his dots and dashes, by Oxford had grabbed a pencil and scribbled down the short message. He huffed, then slid the paper across the table to his wingman. Hye appeared over his shoulder and she and Hercules read it aloud together:

“IS A-O-K, VV.”

Oxford scowled.

“What in the bloody Bolshevik hell does she mean by - !” he started, only silence himself.

“What are you doing?” Hercules asked, but then he felt it, too. A bone-deep rumble that started in the floor and rattle the entire building.

“Earthquake?” Hye asked. Another tremor passed through the floor, this one strong enough to shift furniture.

“No,” Oxford replied. He steadied himself against the wall as another shock passed through the island itself. He pointed out the window with his free hand. Hercules popped out of his chair and stared. The gray overcaster smoke blanketed the island so thick that even sunlight couldn't pierce it, but it was glowing sickly yellow aura, pale and phantasmal. The luminance was brighter than the moon and seemed to come from every direction at once. A final tremor almost threw him off his feet.

“Roof,” was all Oxford had to say. He sprinted over to the weapons locker in the corner, removed a massive Bren gun, and loaded it. He collected three more magazines, racked back the bolt, and exited the room. He took the stairs down to the tarmac two at a time.

Hercules burst into action as well. He shoved chairs out of the way and hauled himself up the ladder rungs cemented into the block wall. They terminated at a hatch in the ceiling, a steel plate that he slid open to reveal a churning sky above.

Their dome of artificial fog was glowing around them, pulsating a sickening, mustard-curry yellow. Hercules was across the flat roof in seconds and began untying the canvas cover that protected their quad-fifty from the rain and salt. A second set of hands joined him.

“How can I help?” Hye asked, calm but concerned. She was analyzing the strange occurrence rather than panicking.

“Keep doing that,” Hercules grunted. It took a few more seconds working the straps for them to free the hulking AA gun. When the last buckle came undone, Hercules hauled the heavy cover away, revealing the four-barreled machine-gun beneath.

Hercules popped into the gunner's seat and began cranking the controls, spinning the linked guns on their turret. He tested their range of motion and elevation. Satisfied with their responsiveness, he looked over to see Hye emerging from the hatch. She was carrying a fifty-cal ammo box in each hand, each weighing close to three stone. She set them down next to the battery and went back for more.

Hercules racked back each of the machine-guns and settled their sights on the glow’s brightening epicenter. He clenched his jaw and waited. Once he had something to shoot, he'd tear it to shreds. Until then, he'd have to wait, fingers on the triggers.

Another shock came up through the building to rattle Hercules' guns. Somewhere above, he could swear he heard the creak of straining metal, like a skyscraper was dangling over him, groaning against the wind.

The hairs on Hercules' arm went rigid, standing up from his skin, and a low hum emanated from all around and nowhere. It grew in volume until it reverberated inside his skull. The yellow glow had reached a peak, with a central light glowing so bright that all the hue was bleached out of it and it became a blinding white. Hercules squinted and adjusted the guns’ aim into the glare.

“Hold fire!” Saltchuck yelled from the ground. Hercules looked over the edge of the roof and saw the Canadian chief walk out onto the tarmac, swinging a burning crimson flare over his head. “Hold fire! It's Ivan!”

Hercules hauled himself out the gunner's seat and stood on the roof, squinting into the bright light. Hye appeared next to him, another ammo box in each hand. Above them, an angular shape materialized out of the gloom and glare. It was a crate, as long as one of their Strike Lightnings, taller than a man, dangling on a single cord and hanging perfectly still from whatever strangeness loomed over the island.

Saltchuck stood beneath the crate, waving his flare. It lowered meter-by-meter until it touched down on the runway. Hercules watched the Canadian crew chief haul himself atop the box and unhook it from the line. The cable retracted like a fishing line, disappearing into yellow. With that, the glow faded and the gray blanket of night returned. Metal creaked far above them, and another rumble shook the island. Hercules could feel each subsequent tremor weaken as whatever caused them carried itself away.

Plumber and Saltchuck had pried off the top of the crate by the time Hercules and Hye reached the ground. A mighty Samoan kick opened its long side, raising a cloud of sawdust and packing straw. The shape inside was long and smooth with a thick bulbous nose that tapered into an angular diamond at its pointed tail.

“What is it?” Hye asked.

Saltchuck found a page affixed to the thing's aluminum skin. He scanned the letter while the assembled officials examined the object. Hercules peered into the transparent nose. A score of pale blue lights glowed within.

“It's a rocket,” he realized aloud. “An I-A rocket. And one this size would knock any plane within miles right out of the sky.”

“They would not let it be that easy,” Saltchuck said. “I'll bet you good money that Plumber and me can build you lot a shield for that. No electrical overloads, even though the Ruskies don't mention that to be a problem. No, your real trouble starts here.”

He walked around the far side of the crate and hauled back on it, scrambling away as the heavy wood collapsed. Four spindly wings, canvas stretched across white metal skeletons, were packed in with the weapon. Their frames were built to lock around the thing's circumference.

“It's a biplane,” Hye said.

“No, it ain't got no engine,” Oakley told her.

Hercules saw it then, a steel loop welded into the shoulders of the top wings. It was large and strong enough to support the weight of the whole contraption.

“Oh hell,” he sighed. “It's a glider.”

The Russians may as well have just sent them cyanide-laced vodka.

As soon as Toroka was spotted, Hercules would be in the air, towing the bloody glider behind Jolly Green. He'd be a sitting duck in enemy airspace, desperately hoping he didn't get splashed before he got his one shot at a monster that did not take well to being shot at.

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Copyright © 2024 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Dudu Torres.