The city at dawn was gray and empty. Mist clung to the streets, softening the jagged ruins. Three scout teams left the resort hotel in silence, bicycles whispering over wet asphalt. No engines, no noise—only the faint clatter of chains and the sound of their breathing.
The boss's orders echoed in their heads: Quiet. No heroics. Eyes open. Report and return. Each man repeated it like a prayer. Out here, one wrong sound could draw a horde.
Team One – River and Police Heliport
Kenta led his pair south along the river. The water stank of oil and rot, drifting with half-sunk cars. They passed corpses snagged on pylons, heads bobbing like buoys. None moved, but the men never took their hands off the rifles strapped to their backs.
The police heliport came into view—a concrete pad jutting over the water, surrounded by chain-link fencing. One gate was broken, bent outward as if something heavy had pushed through.
"Clear?" whispered his partner.
Kenta nodded. They crept in, rifles up. The pad was empty. No helicopter. No crates. No fuel drums. Only black scorch marks across the concrete, still sharp despite the weather.
"Something landed here," Kenta muttered. He crouched and ran a finger over the burn. Dry. Days old, maybe less.
Near the edge, he found deep gouges carved into the surface—skid marks. His gut tightened. "Ka-50 skids could've made that," he said quietly. "But it's gone."
They searched the nearby building. Offices stripped bare, papers scattered. No fuel stores. No tools. Just silence. The only sound was the soft creak of the fence swaying in the wind.
They left a marker and moved on, following the river road. No sign of the bird.
Team Two – Hospitals and News Towers
Saito's team worked north through the narrow streets. They passed a hospital first, glass doors shattered, the inside crawling with shadows. From the stairwell echoed the moans of the dead.
"We're not going in," Saito said. "We check the roof from outside."
They climbed the fire escape of a nearby building and looked across. The hospital roof was clear, but its helipad was cracked and covered in debris. No way a gunship had landed there recently.
Next, they scouted the TV station tower. The upper floors had burned, windows blown out, antennas twisted. The helipad on top was still intact, but streaked with soot.
Saito's partner squinted. "No scorch marks. No fuel drums. Nothing."
But as they scanned the edge, they spotted something. A shell casing, large, brass, wedged between cracks in the concrete. Saito pocketed it.
"Definitely military," he said. "But old. Could've been left from another fight."
The two exchanged uneasy looks. Even if it wasn't recent, it meant someone else had used this place as a firing position before. They moved on quickly, careful not to linger under the skeletal tower.
Team Three – Expressway toward Haneda
Yamada had picked two of his quietest men for the Haneda route. They pedaled fast along the empty expressway, weaving past dead cars. The air was damp with salt from the bay.
Halfway across a bridge, they froze. Dark streaks stained the pavement—long, parallel grooves as if something heavy had been dragged.
The lead scout crouched, touched the mark. "Skids. Has to be. Or maybe gear."
They followed the trail toward the airport, but it ended at a pileup of buses and trucks, burned black. No clear line beyond.
The airport itself was a graveyard. From the overpass they could see the runways, littered with broken planes and the shapes of the dead wandering in clusters. The control tower was scorched. The hangars were gutted.
"No way he's staying here," one muttered. "Too open."
Still, they checked the service roads nearby. At one intersection they found fresh tracks in the dust—wide, armored tires, heading inland.
The scout scowled. "Could be the Rezvani. Could be something else. But not here. Not now."
They turned back before the sun climbed too high, their nerves stretched thin by the endless empty sky above the ruined runways.
Return to the Resort
By afternoon the three teams filed back through the hotel courtyard, sweat-soaked and quiet. They gathered in the boss's office, maps spread across the desk, water bottles half-drained. Dust still clung to their clothes, the stink of the ruined city clinging to them.
Kenta spoke first, voice low. "Police heliport had scorch marks and skid grooves. Days old. Could've been him. But nothing left behind."
Saito set the brass casing on the map. "Hospital pads are dead. TV tower had this. Old shell. No fuel. No sign of recent landings."
The Haneda scouts laid out their report. "Airport's wrecked. No cover, too many dead. But we saw armored tire tracks on the inland road. Could be his ride. Could be someone else."
The boss leaned back in his chair, scar catching the light. He lit a cigarette and smoked in silence for a moment.
"So," he said finally, "we know this: he lands somewhere, but not at the obvious sites. He's careful. Smarter than most. The heliport proves he touched down, but he didn't stay. The tracks prove he drives when not flying. He has a pattern, and patterns can be hunted."
Yamada frowned. "But we didn't find his base."
"Not yet," the boss said. He jabbed the map with his finger. "But we narrowed the net. He needs fuel. That means depots, service yards, maybe hidden caches. We'll find them."
The room stayed quiet. The scouts shifted uneasily, the weight of failure heavy on their shoulders. Even small discoveries—scorch marks, tracks, an old casing—felt thin compared to the threat of the Ka-50.
The boss stubbed out his cigarette. His voice sharpened. "Double the watchers. Rotate the radio men every six hours. No gaps. If he speaks, even once, we'll know. And keep sending scouts. Every dawn until we have him."
"Yes, sir," Yamada said.
The boss stood and looked out the window again, over the dark city. Somewhere out there, a man flew a Russian gunship and thought himself untouchable.
"We'll prove him wrong," he said.