by
Steve Jordan
The opening lines of TALE OF TWO CITIES always come to mind when I reflect on those years, because they were at once wonderful, terrible, incredible and impossible. It seemed to have begun with the discovery of the atom as power source and deadly weapon, but in truth I suppose it had begun even earlier with the wonders of chemistry and the miraculous resilience of the human body. Of course, we were only the common folk, we were never privy to the details, were never told the histories, never knew for sure what we were seeing. We were all sure someone in the Pentagon, or the White House, or the CIA, had all the secrets, and were probably staying up nights plotting out how to use them to their advantage. As for us, we searched for clues in news reports, magazine articles and photos, but the more we saw, the more we just stood there and stared.
Gods walked the earth. And life could never have been more bizarre.
It was any number of things. There were the names. Might. Alpha Man. Pseudoman. Tectonic. Thunder and Lightning. The Manhattans. Professor Power and Power Squared. Apollo, Mercury and Athena, Samson and Delilah, the Shade, the Starling, it just didn't seem to end...
There were the colorful outfits. Capes, tights, boots, gauntlets... the kind of things that would look so stupid on one of us, but on them, somehow, they seemed to work. Probably because of their bodies. Those incredible, perfect bodies that could pop the eyes out of bystanders and cause the opposite sex to salivate.
And their looks... well, what could be seen of them past those hoods and masks... were too picture-perfect to be believed. When you saw them in pictures, your first reaction was always, "It's fake! An airbrush job, or a mannequin, or something." But when you saw them in the flesh, it was like seeing Jesus... or Elvis. It was like they were from another planet.
Of course, their powers. Flight. Unbelievable strength. Speed, stamina. Ability to change shape, at will, right in front of you, now that was weird to see. And some of them would throw these bolts of pure energy, right from out of their bodies, and it was like watching directional explosions.
Actually, what was really scary was knowing there was no point in having all that power unless there was something out there that needed to have that power pitched at it every so often. And you can't have a yin without yang. Those gods fought other gods, mean gods, nasty gods, gods that stole, and destroyed, and killed. Sometimes they fought in plain sight of others. Usually, once they were through, there was nothing left standing in sight.
I mean, you kids today, you just don't know. You never had a chance to see any of these guys in action. Oh, you've seen the videos, the news clips... but it's just not the same. You see the Cybercops in action all the time—you know, don't you, that they were invented thanks to the initial crisis?—but they're not even close to the same thing. You really had to be there. You had to live it. You had to know that day-to-day living could end for you faster than any atomic bomb could end it, and it could happen anytime. You were never safe. Never.
We were paper soldiers, tissue paper, weaklings, ants, next to these incredible super beings, and it was the scariest thing in the world.
Almost.
Because we all found a whole new world of scared on the day they died.
*****
As usual, the news services were no help. We heard vague rumors that something was really bothering the big guys, but no one could find out what was going on. We went for weeks thinking we were dog food any second. The psychiatrists, pharmaceuticals firms and churches were all cleaning up that month. Most of us tried to do our jobs, but you could see the strain on everyone's faces, you could almost smell it in their sweat. It was a rough summer.
Then came the day we all saw Dr. Tomorrow on television, telling us that there was some kind of menace out in space somewhere, threatening the Earth. They had all gotten together to brainstorm over it, and their conclusion was that it would take every last one of them to stop it, or we were all dead anyway. The next thing we know, Tomorrow's built this space ship, and they all piled into it and took off to stop the thing before it could get here. For four days the observatories watched the ship as it headed out to who-knew-what. It just so happened that it was on the night side of Earth when it got there.
You didn't need any telescope to see that explosion.
Everyone who was up, and saw that instant sunrise at midnight, thought it was Judgment Day. You can't help but feel sorry for those that took their own lives that night, sure there would be no morning.
But we were still all here come morning, and when we heard what happened on the news, we didn't know what to do...
-transcribed from Southwood Academy lecture series: Dr. Franklin Swartz, addressing the school body 4/16/2066.
He heard the phone ringing on his desk. He stopped what he was doing, and just stared at it, unable to decide whether or not he should answer it. Before he could make his decision, his office slowly darkened, shifted, converted itself into...
His bedroom. General Vincent Reddy had been dreaming that he was in his office… again. He did that often, when work was particularly trying, and it had been for weeks. He tried to find the phone in the dark, finally managing to lift the receiver off the hook. He grunted into the mouthpiece, squinting at the glowing face of his clock. It was 1:36 AM.
The voice on the phone was pure military. "This is Sgt. Peterson, assigned to PS911-S. Please identify yourself."
General Reddy leaned up in bed. "Vincent G. Reddy, General United States Army."
There was a pause, and another voice (sounding distinctly mechanical) announced, "Identification confirmed: General Vincent Reddy." The first voice came back on. "Sorry to wake you, sir, but we have a delivery."
It was a standard code phrase, used regularly by the more classified departments in the Pentagon. It might have been nothing, even given the hour. Still, Reddy did not want to ask. "What is it?"
"Thor's helmet."
Reddy was wide awake in an instant. "I'm on my way in," he said simply, and hung up. He pulled himself out of bed, his efforts causing a stir beside him. His wife rolled over and peered out of the covers at him. "What is it, Honey?"
"Going in early today," the General replied. "Go back to sleep."
*****
The office was empty, but even at this hour it was still active through the computers and electronic equipment on the immense desk. A few of the components were dedicated to the reception and interpretation of communications data garnered from around the world, and at the moment they were very busy. The computer tied into these systems gave out coded tones related to the message's type and origin. The tones coming out of it now were very rarely heard at all, and now they were repeating in the middle of the night.
The unique tones caught the attention of the man sleeping in the next room.
Actually, it was more a closet than a room, barely large enough for a bed, a wardrobe and a bathroom door. Once its occupant stood up from the bed, the room seemed to shrink even more. He walked out of the closet and into the office, his head and shoulders barely clearing the frame of the door. The small lights and readouts on the equipment in the dim office cast sparse light onto his frame, revealing that he was not simply big… he was built like an Olympian ideal, tall, broad-shouldered and well-muscled.
Seating his considerable build behind the desk, he silently examined the data scrolling down his computer screen. He sat perfectly still, only his eyes stirring as he took in the data. When the data was largely finished, he turned to one of the computers' keyboards and typed, "Initiate Program: Militia." The screen blanked, then began listing various operations and sequences which soon ran off the screen.
Finally he stood up from the desk. He gazed out the window at the star-filled night, listened to the lap of the waves out on the beach.
"Stupid bastards. I knew it'd happen sooner or later," he whispered to himself. He strode back to the bedroom, muttering, "Stupid inhuman bastards."
*****
It was close to 2 AM when the phone rang in the residence of L. Byron Scott IV, but since it didn't ring in his room, Scott did not wake up. Instead, one of his servants—the assistant to the night butler—answered the phone, and after conversing for a moment with the caller, went to find the night butler. Another brief conversation, and the night butler found himself with the uncomfortable task of deciding whether or not to wake his employer.
After a minute of weighing his options, and considering the stability of his current employment, the night butler decided the news could wait until the morning—and the day butler—to be delivered.
All the same, he also got on the phone with the security chief of the estate, and told him to keep an extra sharp watch for the rest of the night.
*****
It had happened just after most newspapers were put to press on the east coast, so a great many of them had been delivered with no mention of the catastrophe... to the chagrin of the newspaper owners. However, the TV and radio news services "never sleep," and when everyone else rose and turned on their morning news programs, they were greeted with news of the disaster.
It was hard for most people to qualify it as a disaster because, as yet, nothing had really happened. Except that the most famous people on Earth were now believed to be dead.
As was typical of modern news systems, the seriousness of the news dictated how much time was devoted to reporting it. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to tell, and the result was the news services repeated their information ad nauseam all through the morning.
Most of the actual information came from many of the observatories around the world that had interrupted their usual stargazing activities to follow the large silver torpedo built by Dr. Tomorrow, as it had sped after hazards unknown. A few of them had video capabilities, which delighted the TV newscasters no end, because it meant they had actual footage of the bizarre explosion in space.
It was a strange explosion: It did not seem to radiate from one point, as explosions tend to do; instead it appeared to race around the spacecraft, like a searchlight pointed inward on itself (which was about the best description any of the newscasters managed to come up with upon seeing it), before the ship itself blossomed into glowing gas and debris in a fraction of a second.
And there was something else about the explosion, what looked like some kind of object that had appeared for an instant just before the strange revolving blast. A great deal of time was spent interviewing scientists, physicists and engineers concerning that barely-glimpsed object, but the upshot of all the commentary was that no one had the slightest clue what it was.
The video footage obtained prior to the ship's departure was replayed repeatedly. Dr. Tomorrow's message was played, and the suggestion of an all or nothing gambit was morbidly rehashed again and again. Then, footage of the heroes, grim but determined, arriving at the launch site. A few file tapes of various of the heroes in action... especially Alpha Man, recently decorated for his diversion of the latest San Andreas quake, and the present darling of the media... and, finally, of the gleaming space ship launching into the unknown.
And the finale: the Unknown that got them.
*****
In the Situation Room of the Pentagon, the Generals blearily studying the reports didn't have much more to go on. They had better quality video footage, courtesy one of the DOD's own surveillance satellites, but no more information about what caused it.
General Reddy sat at the main table, staring at a blowup photo of the initial explosion. This was the closest he was going to get to the traditional warrior's helmet, he knew. He almost wished they did have a way to recover some part of them, to return with, mourn, and bury. Reddy was a bit old-fashioned, and he felt that was what the moment needed. He noted that the photo bore the legend, "Project: MIDGARD," along the bottom. He remembered from somewhere that Midgard was an old Norse reference to Earth, Asgard being their reference to Heaven, the land of the Gods. It also occurred to him that he didn't have the slightest notion what they called Hell back then, but he decided he probably didn't want to know, anyway. The image seemed to make that much less sense when frozen in time, and Reddy found himself regularly looking up at the monitor on the wall that was set in a constant loop of the explosion.
The reference to "Thor's helmet" had been his official notification that MIDGARD had been activated. Whatever the Norse references, it meant that the Superheroes were presumed dead or unable to respond... in this case, unfortunately, the former... and a crisis existed that they would have to deal with without the heroes' help.
Reddy looked up just in time to see Brendan Foster, the ranking General, reenter the room from a side chamber. He caught Foster's eye, and Foster responded by glancing up at the monitor Reddy was turned to.
"Turn that damn thing off," Gen. Foster growled, indicating the monitor. "We've got a lot of work to do, and that thing won't help." He sat down at the table, and the other two Generals present stopped conversing to face him. "Well, thanks to whichever of those morons planned out their little strategies, it looks like they're all dead, and we're left to deal with whatever the Hell is out there."
One of the Generals... Milhouse, who had been deeply contemplating the photos... gestured at the reports in front of them all. "Can't anyone tell us more about that... thing, out there, than what's in this crap?"
"No one that we've been able to find," Foster replied, giving a withering glance to the report in front of him. "I don't think they knew what they were going after."
"Tomorrow's report was pretty vague," Gen. Barnes agreed. "But if they didn't know what they were after, how could they have expected to stop it? And how are we supposed to figure it out?"
"By using our heads!" Milhouse snapped, throwing a report over his shoulder and into a corner. "We've still got our scientists, our technology, our drive, our..." words seemed to fail him a moment, but he quickly switched tracks and resumed. "We don't need those damned hotshots to fight our fights for us! We know enough not to run off half-cocked, throwing all our forces at an unknown threat without a backup."
Reddy was nodding vigorously at this. "Get those brains at NASA on this stuff. If they can figure out how hot a star is a million light-years away, they can figure this stuff out."
"Clymer's already getting his crew together, now," Foster told him.
"How accurate is this ETA?" Milhouse asked, indicating a page from the reports at the table.
"If it doesn't accelerate, 52 days," Foster replied. "We had that plotted before they left."
"Gives us some breathing space, anyway," Milhouse concluded. "But we still need more information."
"NASA's too slow," Barnes added. "If we wait on them to tell us something, we'll be a week dead."
"I think we've got something more useful for NASA to do," Foster stated, looking down at one of the groups of photos in front of him. "It looks like the debris from the explosion is drifting in the same direction. And it's roughly towards Earth."
Reddy looked at his copies of the photos. "Some of that stuff looks pretty big."
"We could have them train their equipment on the debris field," Milhouse offered.
"No, we'll do better than that." Foster picked up a phone. "Get me Clymer." There was a considerable pause before he spoke again. "Jerry, it's Foster. We need a shuttle. Code orange. ASAP." He listened to the other end for a moment, nodded, and hung up. Then he turned to Reddy. "Vince, we'll need one of ours on that shuttle."
Reddy nodded, considering which of their prime shuttle specialists was best suited for the job. "I'll send Col. East. He'll do what needs to be done." Maybe they'd even bring a helmet or two back, after all.
"Fine." Foster finally sat down for the first time since leaving the room, taking a bit of the tension from the air. "Now, let's discuss some of our defense options."
*****
Ed Stadtler was one of those people who didn't listen to the TV or radio news when he got up in the morning. He lived alone, and didn't happen to run into anyone else in his apartment building on the way to work. He listened to the CD player in his Miata, instead of tuning in a radio station.
On the way into his office building, he passed two men holding up a Post and apparently arguing about why something wasn't in it. Although they seemed to have the attitude that, whatever the story was, it was pretty damned important, for all Ed knew they were arguing over the latest Yankees trade, and he didn't give it much thought.
Consequently, he was all the way to his office before he got an inkling that anything was wrong.
When he arrived at the door of SB Electronic Consultants, he put his key in the lock, turned it, and realized the door was already unlocked. He pushed it open, expecting to see Ann Kennedy, who sometimes beat him into work in the morning, sitting at the front desk reading the paper.
He almost hit Ann with the door, and he pulled back with surprise. "Ann! Sorry..." he looked past her—she was standing with her back to the doorway, and had jumped when he came in, but otherwise hadn't moved from her spot—and into the small front room, which was already crowded with people. His partner, Larry Bind, was just next to Ann. Denise Crane and Robert Bryce, the rest of their firm, were across the room against the wall, next to another woman whom Ed had never seen.
And propped on his desk was a stranger. He was a big man, and Ed hoped he didn't shift that weight in just the wrong way, or he was likely to be wearing that old desk. But the stranger saw Ed, and pushed himself to his feet. "Ah, Mr. Stadtler. We were waiting for you to arrive."
Ed glanced at Larry, who had an odd expression on his face. "They were in here, waiting for us, when we arrived," Larry answered the unspoken question.
"Sorry about that," the large man stated, not sounding sorry at all. "A necessary security precaution." He stepped forward, offering his hand. "Joseph Earl, NSA," he rattled off so fast Ed barely caught it. His brow furrowed a bit, but he automatically took his hand.
"So... what can we do for you, Mr. Earl?"
"Joseph."
"Hm?"
"Joseph. Earl. Joseph."
Ed suddenly wasn't sure he was fully awake. He hadn't picked up any difference in pause or inflection between either name, and he hung there, helpless. Ann stepped up behind him. "Joseph is his last name."
"Oh...oh! Right… Mr. Joseph. Why is the NSA breaking into my office first thing in the morning?"
"We're here to discuss a commission with you." Joseph indicated the woman across the room. "My associate, Leslie, Cass."
He'd done it again. Ed turned to her, his mouth frozen open, almost afraid to speak. She walked up to him, took his hand, smiling at his dilemma, and offered, "Miss Leslie Cass."
Ed broke into a smile and shook her hand. "Miss Cass. I take it everyone else has gone through this?" The rest of room nodded at him, and he nodded back. "Good, just so I know we're through. Now: You came in to offer us a job?..."
"No, not really," Joseph interrupted. "We came here to give you a job. The principal difference being, you have little choice but to accept it."
Ed paused at this, then looked to the others. Now he understood why Robert and Denise were against the far wall, with those cowed expressions. A glance at Ann and Larry told him they were hiding it better, but they felt pushed against the same wall. He looked back at Joseph. "Just what sort of a job are we talking about, Mr. Joseph?"
"We need you to break into Power Tower, Mr. Stadtler."
It took about a second for Ed to realize he was talking about THE Power Tower. When he did, he burst out with a laugh. "You're crazy! That place makes Fort Knox look like my broom closet! That whole building is one big deathtrap! Why d'you think the Red Gang never got in? There's no way I'm gonna try to break into Power Tower!"
"Mr. Stadtler..."
"What's your problem with the Powers, anyway? Last I heard, they're on our side..."
"Mr. Stadtler, someone has to get into their headquarters. There may be valuable information vital to the security..."
"Yeah, yeah, I know the spiel. If you need it so bad, why don't you ask them for it?"
"Well, it's too late now, isn't it?" Joseph snapped.
"What the Hell are you talking about? Too late for what?"
Now it was Joseph's turn to pause, looking at Ed as if he was just slightly retarded. Both men turned to Larry, who just stared at Ed for a moment, then threw his hands into the air.
"Jesus Christ, Ed, do you live in a hole? How could you not know? Turn on a TV some time, turn on a radio..."
"Larry!" Ed cut him off. "What?"
"The Powers are dead. They're all dead. The spaceship blew up last night."
*****
"Dead?" L. Byron Scott IV fell into a deeply cushioned antique chair with a plop, mouth slack. "Dead?" He ran a hand through his grayed hair, licking his lips. "All of them? What? What happened?"
The day butler stood in front of him, holding his hands behind his back to hide his fidgeting. "Apparently, the spacecraft they were traveling in was destroyed, presumably by whatever they were planning to destroy themselves. All of them were lost."
Scott sat there for minutes, slack-jawed, silent, eyes vacant, while his butler stood before him, silently considering his possible reactions. Scott finally stood up, and walked like a zombie across the room. He stopped by the large picture window on the study's far wall, staring out but not seeing the spacious grounds beyond.
Suddenly, he jerked as if shot, and threw himself sideways away from the window. He pinned himself against the wall, amidst the silken curtains, and his eyes, now animate, were those of a frightened animal. The butler made no move toward his employer. Instead, he waited for the next order he knew was coming.
After a few moments, Scott turned back to his butler, his frightened stare replaced with one of desperation, then one of concern. "Dennis," he croaked, "call Tork. I want the security staff doubled immediately. Today. Then call LaSalle. Tell him I'm staying here today."
The butler nodded and left the study. When L. Byron Scott finally moved away from the wall, he took care not to cross in front of the window.
*****
Ed Stadtler paced about the cluttered work area of the office like a caged animal, occasionally slowing down long enough to take a sip of the tea in his cup. He had left the conference room to recover from the blitzkrieg of legalese the NSA agents had leveled at them. He was fully convinced that they would all be thrown in jail for a very long time if they did not agree to take the job.
Job. Right. It was a suicide mission.
Jail wasn't looking that bad.
On top of that, he'd discovered that there were some interesting (to the NSA) gaps in the history of their computer wizard, Robert Bryce, and that his jail term would make the rest of theirs seem like an overnight stay in comparison. Robert, who had been quiet all morning, all but tried to melt into the floorboards at that point, and Ed knew they were thoroughly boxed in.
When he was through venting his silent frustrations at the NSA, his government, Murphy's laws, God Himself, and whatever he must have done to tick Him off, he walked over to the teapot, refilled his cup, and returned to the conference room. On the table in the center of the room were rolls of charts and pages of printed data, and everyone was gathered around the table studying the blueprinted material.
Everyone looked up when he returned. "Mr. Stadtler," Joseph greeted him with a paternal air. "Ready to go to work?"
Ed just glared at him, before turning his attention to the prints on the table.
They spent the next twenty minutes examining charts and blueprints, occasionally flipping through the text material to cross-reference a note here or a diagram there. After a thorough going-over, they put the charts down on the table and leaned back in their chairs.
Ed glared at Joseph, across the table. "Well, Joseph, with all this spotty and missing data on their building's security systems, I'm sure we'll all be electrocuted before we reach the front door."
Joseph shrugged. "We know the data's missing. Hell, if we had all that stuff, we could walk in ourselves." Like you did in here, Ed thought. "That's why we're hiring you. We know your firm is the best in New York when it comes to spotting, evaluating and circumventing the most unique and exotic security systems out there. If anyone can find the way into the Power Tower, it's SB Electronics Consultants. And we know you will."
No one replied to his complement, or his challenge. "Look, guys," Joseph added, "we have to get into the Powers' databases. We think they hold the secrets behind that thing that killed them out there, and we need that info. We're sending people into Doc Tomorrow's lab to find out what he knew, too. We hope that the information they have will give us a chance to try to destroy that thing out there. Without it, we're all dead."
When the room remained silent, Joseph tried another approach. "Think of it this way: If you don't go in, and we lock you up, you won't be in jail for longer than two months before we're all dead, anyway. Now. If you need any special equipment, contact me or agent Cass, and we'll get it for you ASAP."
Joseph and Cass then stood up from the table. "Well, we'll leave you to it. Good luck. Keep in touch."
They left the conference room and walked out the door, leaving the shell-shocked staff of SB Electronics Consultants behind in their conference room. They all looked around at each other, with the exception of Bryce, who didn't seem to want to look at anything but the floor. Finally, they all looked back to Ed, who just shook his head and whispered to himself, "Son of a bitch."
It wasn't hard to understand the universal quiet that seemed to descend upon the population of the world, if you remembered the Kennedy assassination, the Challenger explosion, or the Jonestown massacre. To put it simply, the world was left in shock. People made the attempt to get on with their lives, but most of them just went through the motions, stumbling about with vague looks in their eyes.
It only lasted a day.
*****
The police cruiser raced down the road so fast that crossing a graded intersection lifted its rear wheels off the ground. When they touched down again, the driver put them into a squealing skid that brought the car door to door with another cruiser, with inches to spare. One policeman, of the many who crouched behind their parked cruisers in the street, was so taken by surprise that he had to check himself from training his gun on the cruiser driver. Then they all turned back to the bank across the street, beyond their cordons.
Officer Woody Klein pushed his door open and crouched down behind it. He looked over the edge of the door to the bank, then looked over his shoulder at the other officers. He saw one of his old partners a few yards away, standing at the corner of the High's on the corner. "Hey, ‘Tonio," he called, "find out who it is, yet?"
‘Tonio looked at Woody, then pointed his sharp jaw at the bank. "They think it's the Tank, but they're not sure. Portland's tryin' to talk to him, now."
"Portland?" Woody looked back toward the bank. "That bullshit-spewing weenie?"
As if on cue, a commotion erupted from the bank. There was a sudden burst of profanity, followed by a small man in a cheap green suit backing slowly out of the door, hands out in front of him.
"That's my weenie," Woody stage whispered to no one in particular.
Suddenly Portland ducked, fell over, and rolled to one side. There was a crash and a shower of glass from the recessed entrance of the bank, followed by the shattered doors themselves. And a desk arched over Portland's head and landed in the street in an explosion of walnut-stained pressboard splinters.
Someone in earshot said, "Yeah, that's probably the Tank."
Portland was busy scrambling back to cover behind a cruiser. He slipped around a car, almost on hands and knees, and stopped near Woody. Woody looked back at him and grinned. "Christ, Portland, what'd you say to him?" Portland just looked at him as if he didn't understand the question, and Woody started to repeat himself when a large figure lumbered out of the bank.
Woody had never seen the Tank up-close, and he couldn't help but gape. He seemed to be fully ten feet tall, and he was covered with what looked like battleship plate under his clothes. Upon closer examination, Woody realized that the plates weren't under his clothes, but under his skin. In one hand was a large sack, barely holding a very hard, angular cargo inside. Woody guessed it was probably holding the bank's safety deposit boxes, contents and all.
The gargantuan bank robber stood in the middle of the street, sizing up the cordon of policemen surrounding him, as if he had all the time in the world. And Woody suddenly realized: He did have all the time in the world. He had almost forgotten that that robot-thing, Pseudoman, was generally the only one who could rein in the Tank. He'd actually witnessed one of their many battles in the old warehouse district, and had come very close to being crushed by the warehouse wall the Tank had toppled on Pseudoman. Actually, now that he thought of it, he'd come closer to being blown to bits by Pseudoman when he'd blasted himself out from under that wall.
Now, there was no more Pseudoman. He died with the rest of the heroes, last night. And the Tank was obviously keen to press his advantage.
Feeling slightly nervous, Woody looked over to where his closest superior, Lt. Fox, was on the radio to the Captain. He could tell she was talking to Capt. Stears, it was the way she postured even when just talking about him. Woody saw her shoulders square, and she put the microphone back in the car. Then she surveyed the officers around her. Woody knew that look: It meant SWAT was at least twenty minutes away, and she'd been given the ball. When she inhaled sharply, he knew what she was about to shout.
"Take ‘im down!"
At once, every cop on the street let loose with their firearms, all trained on the Tank. The noise was deafening, the thunder of the guns contrasting with the sharp whines of shrapnel kicked up from the wall. The Tank threw up his arm, bringing the metal-filled bag in front of his face, and stood there, contemptuously.
Woody noticed a great many of the shots fired by his fellow officers were striking him anywhere, but bothering him little. They were not taking the time to try to pick a vulnerable point in his armor, just trying to knock him down by sheer force. Woody tried to take out his knees, shins, crotch, elbow, neck, wrist, every soft spot he knew of and, once that didn't work, a few he was just guessing at. He wished he had a bazooka on him, or at least a hand grenade. He was sure he wasn't the only one.
Suddenly, the Tank moved. He surged forward, surprisingly fast for his bulk, into the middle of the street. Then he stopped, threw his arms back, and leaped into the air. Woody momentarily imagined he'd somehow learned how to fly, and held his fire. But the Tank reached an apex in his leap, arced back down, and struck the ground feet-first. There was an explosion of rock and dust, the shock of his landing knocking everyone off their feet. Woody's foot slid out from under him, and he fell straight down, landing on his seat hard enough to jar his teeth.
When he stood back up, he looked over his cruiser at the street. The Tank was gone. The cloud of dust he had kicked up was blowing down the street, to reveal a ragged hole in the middle of the street. Someone cursed loudly, and the policemen bounded out from behind their vehicles and crowded around the hole.
"Christ! Sewer!" a cop exclaimed. "Boy, were we suckered!" Someone pointed a flashlight into the hole, the light reflecting off the water running below. "We can't track him through the water. We lost him."
Woody, crouched by the hole, straightened up and holstered his gun. As the rest of the squad left the site, some heading into the bank, Woody held back a moment, hovering by the hole. Lt. Fox noticed him still standing there.
"Unless you're planning to jump in after him," she advised, "get back to your car and resume your patrol. There's nothing left to do here."
*****
The Tank's daring daylight robbery was only the first of dozens, all over the world, perpetrated by supercriminals run amok. A few were brought down by the local authorities or armed forces, but most of them, veterans of intricate and devious plots and schemes designed to thwart their law-abiding super counterparts, made a killing on the street.
Woody Klein found himself involved with six other such robberies over the course of the next five days. By the end of his work week, which happened to fall on a Thursday, Woody was whipped. He slumped on a barstool in the tavern a few blocks from his apartment, the space in front of him filled with empty beer mugs. He'd walked in during quarter beer happy hour, and tossed a five-dollar bill on the bar. So far, he had finished off $3.75 worth of the brews, and was having a bit of trouble focusing on the remaining mugs.
He was also distracted by having to try to ignore the other patrons at the bar, all of whom seemed to have a story about some super-crime they had witnessed, and the inevitable addendums about the helpless, hapless cops left with egg on their faces after each incident.
He hardly noticed when the bartender came up and began removing empty mugs from the bar, to make room for another patron elbowing up next to him. When Woody noticed the missing mugs, the newcomer was already next to him.
"Hey, Woody! Tough week, huh, buddy?" Woody tried hard to focus on the newcomer.
"Arn? How you doin.'"
"Oh, man, you've got a real head start on me," Arnold Woon said, plunking a dollar bill on the bar. "You must have had a really tough week."
"Man, it sucked. I mean, it sucked big hairy ones. We almost lost Bishop on Tuesday."
"What!"
"Yeah. Got tossed by Red Rover, about eighty feet. Thought his number was up," he mumbled, tossing down another beer.
"Man," Arn exhaled, just as his beers showed up. He tossed one down and picked up another mug. "What are you guys gonna do? Is anything working?"
"The only thing I've heard of that works is military ordn... ordi... orndinc..."
"Ordinance," Arn finished for him. "Sure, Woody, but are they gonna give any of those heavy arms to the cops? Hell, no."
"Hell, no," Woody echoed.
"It goes against every reg in the books. We both know that."
"Unless you're SWAT," Woody slurred.
"But even SWAT has to use specific ordinance that's nothing like state of the art firepower." Arn took a swig of his beer. "I'll bet the brass beef up SWAT, or at least enlarge the squad."
"AAH!" Woody waved an arm, almost slapping the girl on his far side. "A bigger SWAT team, with the same old guns and toys—Sorry, ma'am—big deal! They need firepower!"
A few others drifted into the conversation, lured by the talk of Dirty Harry police tactics and the dizzying nomenclatures of professional warfare arms and equipment. Woody barely kept up with his end of the conversation, but only due to his inebriation. Arn became the center of the arms debate, demonstrating a superior knowledge of all types of weapons and equipment that patently amazed the rest of the crowd. By the time they were winding down, they had all but drawn up diagrams depicting the ultimately-dressed samurai policeman.
And somewhere deep under Woody's stupor, those details were forming an image in his subconscious.
*****
"Get Tork on the line! Where's Tork?" Byron Scott IV bellowed into the phone at the desk in his study. Scott himself was poised behind it in preparation to dive under it, and occasionally glanced over its mahogany top at the locked door or the curtained windows. He flinched at the sound of gunfire, somewhere on his estate, a moan of automatic rounds followed by the sharp crack of rifle shots. He had no idea who was using which weapons, his own security staff, or the (at last count) 40 or so thugs that were attempting to storm his home and do who-knew-what to his person and property.
A voice buzzed in Scott's ear, returning his attention to the phone. "I don't care! Find Tork and get him on the phone, or it's both your jobs!"
This was the second attempt to breach his estate in four days. It was not as if it was a unique occurrence: Being one of the richest men in town, Scott had been the target of uncounted threats, robberies, kidnap attempts, ransom demands, takeover attempts and personal attacks over the course of his career.
But there was a significant difference this time. In the past, Scott knew he could depend on Tectonic, Might, or the Metacats, or some other hotshot hero, to show up and save his bacon. They had always turned up, he didn't know how, when he needed them. Now they were gone. His men had managed to repel the first few crooks who tried to break in, but they returned. With friends. Scott knew it was only a matter of time before they made it inside and trashed his beautiful home.
Not to mention, himself.
Scott suddenly froze, cocking an ear at the window. The shouts and gunfire were dying down outside. He peered at the window, as if he could see through the drawn curtains, trying to see some sign that the skirmish might be over. Presently he heard a buzzing on the phone in his hand, and he raised it back to his ear.
"Tork!"
"Yes, I was on the south side of the estate, pinned down at the garage. We've managed to drive them off, sir. The police are picking them up outside the grounds..."
"What the hell were you doing at the garages! Dammit, Tork, if you can't..." Scott checked himself, pulled away from the phone to take a deep breath. Then he lifted the receiver slowly back to his ear. "Sorry, Tork. You did fine. Good job."
A knock at the door startled Scott, and he reflexively ducked a bit before he caught himself. He started to call out, but decided to stay silent. He only saw the shadows of one set of feet under the door, but...
"Mr. Scott?"
Scott visibly relaxed, exhaling the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Hold on!" he called at the door, then to the phone, "Tork, when you're through mopping up out there, see me in my study." He hung up, went over to the massive double doors to the study, and unlocked them.
Mark LaSalle stood on the other side of the door, the expression on his face the only visible sign that he had been in the midst of a small war. He did not immediately come in, instead he stood his ground and looked Scott up and down. Scott examined Mark as closely, noticing his four-figure European suit had not even lost a crease. Mark finally met Scott's eyes, and said simply, "Are you all right?" Scott nodded. Mark seemed to relax, and finally walked into the study. "It's over out there. Tork lost two men. We've got six others needing hospitalization. It was pretty bad."
"Did..." Scott paused, realizing how petty he was going to sound. "Did they get anything?"
Mark looked at him, but his expression wasn't recriminating. "No, but they did a fair amount of damage, mostly to brickwork, windows, and wallboard. I don't know if they damaged any of the art. The staff is checking, by now." He walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured a brandy and returned to Scott's side, handing the goblet to him. Scott nodded and tilted his head back, downing the brandy in one gulp. After a moment, he moved toward the door.
"I want to see the damage."
The tycoon and his Chief Aide walked through the mansion, examining the outer rooms one by one. They found a number of bullet holes and gouges in the walls of the outer rooms. They walked gingerly through those rooms, taking care to avoid the shards of broken glass littered over the expensive carpeting. They discovered an occasional bullet hole bored into some of the many paintings that adorned the mansion walls. In one room, a ceramic sculpture lay in a million pieces on the floor around its pedestal. There was a single bullet mark in the wall about three inches above the pedestal's base, almost dead center.
They paused at the reception room. Mark regarded Scott with a quizzical expression, but Scott did not speak. He was remembering the time he'd stood here with Tectonic, shaking that huge slab of a hand, thanking him for saving his estate from another attack. He almost regarded them as part of his staff, they came so often. Even now, he could almost see Tectonic standing there, smiling.
About an hour into their examination, Scott decided to leave the rest of it to the staff. He and Mark returned to the study, and Scott went back to the liquor cabinet.
There was a knock at the open double door. A man in a dark blue security uniform, looking like he'd just crawled through a bramble hedge, stood there waiting to be bidden entry. Scott turned to the door. "Tork... Jesus, are you all right?" He motioned for him to come into the study.
Tork walked in, just slightly favoring his left leg. "I'm fine, sir. I caught some flying glass, is all."
"Sit down, Tork. Here." Scott handed his security chief his brandy, then poured another for himself. Then he moved to his desk and sat down behind it. "Sorry I snapped at you out there. It's been a bad week for all of us, especially you and your men, and I had no right."
Tork nodded slightly, mumbling, "I understand, sir."
"Good. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd just jumped into one of the cars and cleared out of here." Scott was looking away, so he didn't notice how fast Tork brought the brandy snifter up to his face to hide his expression. Mark noticed, and suppressed a smile while Scott continued. "We can't go on like this, obviously. Mark, Tork, we have to come up with a way to defend this estate, fast. Otherwise, we might as well board up the windows and leave. And I have no intention of leaving." He gulped down some brandy.
Mark spoke first. "I think we're going to have to pull some strings to get some more advanced weaponry." Scott looked at him with a strange expression. "I know what it sounds like, but what choice do we have? Those people out there have serious firepower. We still have contacts with DOD. We should call them."
"Sir?" Tork almost raised his hand, waited for Scott to look at him. "I have a few friends on the force, who tell me the police brass are making plans to create urban assault gear for their police. Maybe we should talk to them."
Scott seemed to consider both suggestions, and was quiet a moment. Then he shook his head. "I don't know. Anything the police or the Army has, the crooks can get. We need something superior."
"Superior?" Tork echoed.
"Yes..." Scott paused, trying to collect his thoughts. "Something that we know will stop those crooks, no matter what they've got. We need better than police or Army issue, because the crooks know how to get past that stuff." He looked at Mark. "We are talking about self-defense, trespassing, the sanctity of my home. I have the right to defend myself."
"Just how far are we willing to go?" Mark asked.
"Well..." Scott considered. "If we go all the way... well, hell. No one's going to miss a bunch of thugs, are they? No! No one's going to miss a crook at all!"
Mark looked at his boss, then stared off into space for a moment. Then he looked back at Scott. "That's a good point."
*****
The lights were low in the conference room at the Van Dorn Street police station, and the blinds were drawn on the west-facing wall. It was late in the day, and sunlight forced its way into the room in horizontal strips, sculpting the eight men in the room in bands of yellow light. One man wore the uniform and colors of the Chief of Police, his hat on the table in front of him. The others wore three-piece suits, and despite the high temperature of the room, none of them had loosened their ties.
"Gentlemen," one of the suits addressed them, "We are neck deep in the biggest crisis this city's ever had. Without our champions, the criminal elements of this city are tearing us apart. We can't last like this. I have already authorized a measure giving the police force permission to use deadly force at their discretion, but it's not enough."
"All right, all right, we know why we're here," another suit interrupted him. "If you're planning to build up the city's arsenal, you know I'm all for it. But you tell me what we're gonna pay for it with."
"We're all gonna pay for it with blood if you don't stop screwing around with us..." the Chief of Police snapped at him, but the first suit stopped him with a motion of his hand. "You're gonna find a way, or it'll be your job, as well. All our jobs, understand?"
A third suit joined in. "I guess I know what I'm here for. I can give you all the specs for our SWAT units, and we can figure out what we can apply to the rest of the force..."
"No. Not quite." The first suit leaned forward. "We can't afford to outfit the entire department. We're going to have to work with squads, an elite force."
"But like SWAT."
"Like ultimate SWAT. Stan, what I want from you is not a list of your current equipment. I want your Christmas list. Your ultimate Christmas list. The stuff you've wanted in here all your life, but can't even clear through God, much less the Feds."
"You're nuts," the suit replied. "We'll never be able to afford something like that."
"We'll never be able to buy equipment like that," another suit chimed in. "How ya gonna get it past Uncle Sam?"
"We are the fourth largest city in the country, that's how," the first suit replied. "If we have to, we'll lie, cheat, steal, blackmail, ransom, or blow someone up! But I'll get what I want." He ticked off on yellow-banded fingers. "I want suits that protect the body. I want armor-piercing guns. I want protection from lasers, tasers, masers and phasers!"
The Chief threw in his two cents. "They need specialized sensory equipment. Night vision, heat sensors, metal detectors."
"Instant communication with his commander and other officers," another suit added.
"Instant information access."
"Heightened close-in defensive capabilities."
"Added strength."
"High mobility."
"Smart guns. Built-in computer guidance."
"Smart bullets."
"I think you've got the picture, Stan," the first suit said. "I want a model in three days. I want volunteers picked out to train and wear them. I want these on the streets in two weeks."
*****
Woody Klein stood in the entrance to an alley, across the street from The Police Store, taking deep draughts of the cool morning air. He had only been up for an hour, but it was too early for his hangover to have dissipated yet. He wished he'd remained in bed, but he knew that he had to come here this morning. Still, he could not bring himself to walk across the street yet, he was crazy, his head hurt, he was cold...
He saw Arn, in the window of the store. He had turned up with a display of some kind, something he was arranging in the storefront. Arn didn't look up. Why should he? Why should he think that his crazy friend was standing across the street in the fog, afraid to see him? When Arn was finished, he pulled himself out of the window display and disappeared back into the store.
Woody stood there for another few minutes, almost wishing he'd see Arn poke his head out the door, look straight at him, and motion him inside. Finally, he seemed to shake his indecision off his shoulders, drew himself up to his full height, and crossed the street.
Arn was behind the counter when Woody opened the door. He was on a stepladder, putting boxes of swiss army knives on the shelves above. He looked over his shoulder, then stepped down off the ladder. "Woody." His smile was not quite a smile, his voice a bit subdued. "How goes? How ya feelin' today, man?"
Woody ran a hand through his hair. "I've been better. Should've had a good ten more hours of sleep."
"Had something you needed to do today, huh?"
"Yeah." Woody ran his eyes around the store. Arn was a sort of "unofficial" official police supplies store. He was good at getting some of the equipment the "official" police stores sold, so he had a strong clientele among the city's force. He also sold arms to the registered public, as well as army surplus and items that were not under government control, so he turned a good profit in his small store. At least, anyone who knew him well knew he turned a good profit, but he didn't flaunt his money on the street. Only his good friends knew what he did with all his cash. Woody was one of the chosen few.
Woody paused a few more seconds, unsure how to start. "You were the one who brought me home last night, right?"
"Don't remember, huh? Yeah, I guess I got you home around two. I would'a gotten you home earlier, but I thought you'd already left."
"Left?"
"Yeah, you got up from the bar and headed for the door, around midnight. Then about one, I saw you alone in a corner booth, just sorta mumbling to yourself. So I took you home."
"Mumbling, huh? Anything X-rated?" Woody asked, trying to sound flippant.
"Not exactly," was all Arn would reply. They locked eyes for long seconds. Finally, Arn moved from around the counter and went to the door. He put up a cardboard sign reading, "be back in twenty minutes," and locked the front door. Then he walked to the counter and pulled back a curtain that led into a back room. "Come on, Wood."
They went into the back room, walked up to another door. Arn unlocked the heavy door and opened it, revealing stairs leading downward. He flicked on a light just inside the doorway, and started down. Woody followed him down. He knew where he was being led, but had no idea what he was actually going to see. At the bottom of the stairs, Arn walked through another doorway and found another light switch. He flicked the lights on just as Woody reached the doorway.
Woody involuntarily caught his breath. Arn smiled and crossed his arms in front of him. After a moment, Woody took a few halting steps forward.
The room was cramped, it was so full of displays and stands. Taking up most of the front half of the room were modified coat racks holding the warfare garments of a millennium. There were coats, uniforms, helmets, shields, boots and gauntlets. Woody saw metals, cloths, wood, plastic and even stone. Behind and around the uniforms were display cases, like the ones upstairs, but filled with everything from prehistoric-looking stone knives to state of the art "smart" guns, defensive small arms, bows and arrows, early automatic weapons, gas canisters, spears, grenades, and a few items that looked more like props from the last James Bond movie than weapons of any kind. There was a WWII issue folding field motorcycle mounted on a wall. A 19th century cannon was suspended from the ceiling. The far wall held a painting of the Battle of Britain that covered at least seventy percent of the wall's span.
This was the infamous collection of Arnold Woon, a treasure trove of lethal equipment like none Woody had even seen. He was sure, in fact, that if the government knew he had even a few of these items in here, he'd be doing time in Leavenworth until his grandchildren died.
The first thing he came within reach of was a suit of Chinese armor, finely polished in what looked like bronze, with a helmet mounted above it on its display stand. Woody ran his hand over the metal, still smooth as the day it was forged. "Sixth Dynasty," Arn spoke. "A bit old for you, I think. Probably too small, too."
Woody stopped fingering the armor and looked back at him. "I knew you were the man," he smiled.
"Yeah, well, after last night, I knew you were gonna be the Man, and I wanted to get in on this. I mean sure, you were pretty smashed, but I know you. I could tell from listening to you last night, that you were ready to take law enforcement to the next level, even if it meant going solo to do it." Arn smiled. "Well, I can't let my friend go out there to defend his people, my people, without making sure he'd be prepared." Arn led Woody past the ancient suit, and further into the room. Woody saw racks of equipment, armor, firearms, helmets, cruncheons, shields, uniforms, radios and exotic weaponry. Some of it bore close resemblance to equipment upstairs, but upon closer examination, proved to be in much better condition, cleaned, primed, sharpened, sewn, and ready for serious use. He stopped in front of the twenty-first century equivalent of battlefield armor, a fully covering kevlar suit with impact-absorbing composite superstrate. The material was light and flexible, and clearly a breathable and non-binding fabric.
"You've got a good eye, sir," Arn crooned in his best salesman tones. "That would make a good base layer for you. It'll turn anything short of cannonfire, but you can wear it for hours in relative comfort. Easy to move in, too. That'll be important. You will need headgear, though. Let's see..." Arn walked along a wall of helmets, pausing and reaching for one. "See this? Experimental army issue. Spanish army, that is. Kevlar shell, synthetic foam interior, special amplification plastics for each ear. They say it actually clarifies sound, but I've never noticed. Best thing about this: It covers all of your face, except the eyes. And I've got some goggles for you that are strengthened and reflective." He tossed the helmet to Woody. "No one will ever recognize you."
Woody looked at the helmet, then at Arn, and smiled. Arn returned the smile, and turned back to the display cabinet.
"Now, let's get you some armament. Something in a laser, sir?"
*****
He was alone on the island, for the first time since he could remember, it seemed. The day he'd arrived on this remote atoll, so many years ago, he'd brought surveyors and a construction crew, and they had immediately begun work on his home. Then servants, instructors, caretakers, all gleaned from the nearby islands... those with people, at least... had taken up residence and cared for the island, and himself, for the last eleven years.
Now they were all gone. He'd explained his plans, told them he would be leaving for the U.S., and explained they all had a choice to come with him or go back to their island homes. They had all decided to go home. He tried not to take it personally.
And as he stood on the edge of the thin beach, waves lapping at his feet, he looked back at the house that had been his sanctuary for so long. He was going to miss it, it was true, but there was work to do, and he couldn't do it from here. Already most of his equipment had been picked up, and was waiting for him in New York. The house was only a shell now. Time to leave it to the parasites.
He thought about the people. All the people. They were out there, without their super security blankets, and they were panicked. They were laborers, farmers, clerks, bosses, suits and dresses, afraid of a future without soldiers to protect them. It had been so long since they'd had to stand up for themselves. Would any of them remember how?
By now, the Militia program was mostly complete: His systems here were shut down, and had been recreated in New York. Other stores of equipment had been shipped, and other purchases were on route to his new home. The rest of the "program" was up to him to continue, now. It would be his job to lead the world (kicking and screaming, most likely) into a new era. He had a big job ahead of him, but he was ready to take it on. It was what he'd prepared most of his life for, including the years spent on this island. Even his tutors and trainers had wondered what he thought he would do with knowledge of the most practical and theoretical sciences, martial arts techniques, war strategy, public speaking, leadership, physical training, medicine, computer programming, engineering, yoga, psychology and world history. Those tutors he explained his future to generally acted as if he was crazy, but since they continued to tutor him and accept their paychecks, he never considered their opinions important. And now they were gone, their duties concluded, it was time to apply some of that knowledge.
Moored against a small dock was a seaplane. It was gassed up and ready to go, and his gear was aboard. He paused before he boarded it. He had the strangest feeling he was stepping into a moment in history. As he started the engines, he sincerely hoped he was playing the part of a Washington... or even a Revere...and not a Custer.
*****
It was eight days after the destruction of Tomorrow's ship, almost to the hour. Depending on where in Cape Canaveral you were, you were either in the kind of oppressive darkness that only a remote swamp could provide, or you were in the midst of spotlights that seemed to best the sun itself in output. Most of those spotlights were trained on a few spots, most notably the launching pad where the space shuttle Endeavor hung against its fuel tank and boosters.
General Reddy stood at the large picture window at the launch command center, watching the shuttle as if he were somehow protecting it. He had finished the last briefing with Col. Ben East, who would be in command of the mission, just minutes ago. About now, East would be arriving at the distant shuttle and climbing inside, to join the other four members of the crew already aboard. At about the time he estimated East should be on-board, he left the window and headed back to the launch center.
Launch center didn't change much, these days. It used to be that, every few years, NASA would reorganize the huge room where launches were monitored and supervised, but they had since found an optimum layout for Capcom, and now the only changes one tended to notice were replacements to the computers and monitors at each station. There was one difference today, but it was one that most of the American public were not aware of: This was a purely Defense related mission, and they were following standard security procedures for a sensitive mission. Only essential personnel were in Capcom today, and only about two-thirds of the room was occupied, but since there were no broadcasts from Capcom going out to the public, no one would ever see this skeleton crew doing its job.
NASA Administrator Girard Clymer saw Gen. Reddy enter the room. "General. Firechief reports Col. East on-board. We're ready to start final countdown."
Reddy nodded, and the word was passed. In a small corner of a large wall monitor, a digital counter appeared and began counting backwards from 5.00.00 minutes. Reddy listened as the Capcom staff went over the launch checklists with the shuttle's pilot, Capt. Gus Cleveland. Occasionally he would hear someone trip over the name Endeavor, before switching back to the mission's code-name, Firechief, and resuming their checks. This was something Capcom was not used to, indeed, it had only been done twice before. Still, they were professional about it, not sniggering like a bunch of school kids at "all the cloak and dagger nonsense," as he'd heard it described so many times before.
Of course, they might have just been more aware of exactly what was at stake. Reddy nodded to himself.
Capt. Cleveland's voice came over the main speaker. "Capcom, we are go for launch at T minus one minute."
"Roger, Firechief," came the reply from the "voice's" desk, "we have you ‘go' for launch." There was a pause, before the Voice of Capcom spoke again. "Good luck, Firechief." Reddy looked down from his vantage point at the woman behind the communications console. After a second, she looked up from her console at him. He gave her a brief nod, then turned back to the screen.
The secondary rockets were just firing on the pad. A few seconds later, the main engines flared to life and thick white smoke spread outwards at hurricane speed, obscuring the pad in seconds. Then in the middle of the white and orange conflagration, a white glider attached to a brown bullet floated out of the top and slowly ascended, already swiveling on its axis and drifting eastward.
Shuttle mission ND001, code-named Firechief, was off for the stars.
Midgard's Militia e-Book edition is copyright ©Steve Jordan. All rights reserved.
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