168 Hours
Chapter 1
Naval Air Station Sigonella
Sicily, Italy
0800 Hours, Local Time
Mt. Etna was as impressive a sight in 2015 as it had been in 1943. Steve let his eyes roam over the vista for a few moments before returning to his sketch pad. He almost had the eastern slopes right...
Focusing on his drawing was more than an attempt to pass the time. It helped him keep his mind off of nine and a half months of failure. He, Sam, and Rhodey had scoured North America, rooting out HYDRA cells and looking for Bucky, and while they'd been surprisingly successful at the first, they'd utterly failed at the second. Bucky was nowhere to be found, and he apparently wanted to keep it that way.
Steve tried not to feel hurt, tried to put himself in Barnes' shoes, but he kept coming back to feeling rejected. That wasn't fair to Bucky, he knew. It was hopelessly unrealistic, given what he knew his best friend had been through. He truly had no way of knowing how much of Bucky was left inside the shell of the Winter Soldier. He wanted to think there were still pieces he could help pick up, that something salvageable was left. Sam's encounter in Missouri, and Natasha's in Manhattan seemed promising, in that regard.
He'd been angry when she'd first told him that Bucky had been so close and she'd let him go without even calling Steve down from the tower, but she had put him in his place quickly enough. She could no more have kept Bucky from leaving than Sam could have in Missouri. And enough people had forced Bucky to do things over the years. They didn't need to start. Steve couldn't argue with that.
Two smoking craters had appeared in Arizona a few days later, but if it had been Barnes, there was no evidence left behind. Not that Steve had expected any. Sam had gone out to Phoenix right after New Year's to join Agent Howard's team, trying to piece together exactly what had been blown off the map, but it was a slow process.
Pepper had insisted that Steve spend the holidays in New York, and with Bucky's trail cold, he'd agreed. Unfortunately, he hadn't felt much in the spirit of things. He'd spent most of Tony's huge Christmas bash by the bar with Clint and Bruce, watching Darcy Lewis teach Thor about human dancing...and generally feeling sorry for himself, which he hated.
The life he'd struggled to rebuild for himself over the past three years had been turned completely on its head. S.H.I.E.L.D. ended up being something that stood against everything he believed in; his superiors were liars: some of them conspirators, murderers, and worse. He and Natasha had almost been hunted down and killed by the very team they'd worked beside for twenty months. The evil cult he thought he'd died destroying turned out to be alive and well and more widespread than ever, and Bucky—
Steve squeezed his eyes shut. It always came back around to Bucky.
"Captain Rogers?"
Startled out of his dark reverie, Steve looked up to find a U.S. Navy petty officer standing at attention, saluting him smartly. He flipped the sketch pad closed, stood and returned the young man's salute.
"Captain, the aircraft is ready to go. If you'll follow me, sir?"
Grabbing his duffel, Steve let the petty officer lead him out of the waiting area and through the main terminal, out onto the tarmac. The two-toned gray C-2A Greyhound that awaited him was quite a bit larger than the S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjets he'd flown aboard so many times, with a fat fuselage topped by a broad wing, and flanked by two huge turboprop engines. The aft loading ramp was lowered for boarding, its red-painted edges creating the impression that Steve was about to be swallowed by a huge metal whale.
Two naval aviators—a male pilot and a female crew chief—met them at the ramp. Both saluted. Steve returned it, then accepted the pilot's handshake.
"Captain Rogers, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Lieutenant, J.G. McConnell, this is Chief Ramirez. She'll be running you through the safety briefing and getting you settled in back."
"Thank you," Steve replied.
"I bet you never had machines like this back in the day, eh, Captain?" the pilot asked, patting the rear fuselage of the plane with obvious affection. "I guess all this is pretty mind-blowing, huh?"
Oh, boy, Steve thought to himself. That tone of voice. He'd encountered many people since being defrosted who assumed that because he was from the '40s, he was a caveman. Yes, we had planes, and refrigerators and even electric lights, thank you very much. He put on his most sincere I'm-sure-you're-right smile and nodded toward the Greyhound. "Yeah...she's somethin' else."
Apparently placated, secure in his belief that the caveman was harmless—and yes, maybe Steve was just in a bad mood, but the pilot's attitude was already grating on his nerves—the pilot ran down the flight plan. About four hours to Cyprus, maybe less depending on the winds, then refuel and four more hours to the carrier, which was somewhere in the Red Sea as they spoke. McConnell excused himself to finish his pre-flight checks, leaving Steve with Chief Ramirez, who was watching Steve with a barely suppressed grin. She nodded toward the pilot once he was out of earshot.
"Harvard," she said, as though it explained everything. "You're not the only one he assumes is stupid, trust me."
Steve laughed as he followed Ramirez up the ramp into the passenger compartment. As she led him to the seats, he noticed another passenger, a blonde woman in Army fatigues, wearing Lieutenant's bars on her collar. She adjusted her eyeglasses and smiled as Ramirez got him settled in across the narrow aisle from her. "Lieutenant Roman, Army Intelligence. Hope you don't mind me hitching a ride, since we're going the same direction."
Steve politely smiled and nodded to her as he sat. Chief Ramirez quickly ran through a safety briefing, then helped him stow his bag under the seat next to him. When that was done, she glanced sheepishly toward the cockpit, then back at Rogers. "Captain...may I— I just wanted to say thank you, sir."
Steve frowned. "For what?"
"I'm third generation Navy, sir. My grandfather was a boatswain on the battleship Texas in 1944. He told us a story about D-Day, they were heading in to bombard the coast for the invasion, and the weather was terrible that morning before dawn. He had to go up on deck and he slipped...you jumped into the water and brought him back to the ship."
Steve grinned. "Oh, wow...I haven't thought about that in a long time. Um...his name was...Thomas, right?"
Ramirez beamed. "Yes, sir. If you don't mind, sir, maybe you could spare a few minutes and tell me your side of that story?"
Steve laughed. "It's a long flight, I'm sure we can find a few minutes." The chief thanked him, then headed toward the front of the plane.
Steve shook his head, remembering that morning. The old Texas had seemed huge back then, and had certainly been the biggest ship he'd ever been on...until Coulson had flown him out to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s helicarrier seventy years later.
"Do you ever get tired of hearing how great you are?"
He sighed quietly, turning a glare on the blonde across from him. "Natasha, what are you doin' here?"
"Nadine Roman, actually," Romanoff replied, arching an eyebrow. "And did you seriously think you could leave New York without telling anyone and not make people worry?"
"When the Army sends out classified orders, they tend to frown on people spreading the word around. Besides, I didn't even know the destination until I was airborne."
She frowned. "And since when do you jump when the Army says—?" She broke off and looked at him sharply, lowering her voice. "Steve, is...is this the deal you made for Barnes? You rejoined the Army?"
"Technically, I was never out of the Army," Steve deflected. At her look, he sighed. "Yes. Part-time. I guess you call it semi-active duty."
Frankly, Steve was surprised, on multiple fronts. First, that Sam and Rhodey managed to keep it quiet around the others, and secondly that Natasha or Clint hadn't caught on earlier. He knew they were both laying low after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, but he hadn't realized how far out of the loop they'd gone.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Natasha asked, her expression switching back to the more unreadable kind she often wore to hide what she was thinking.
"I couldn't," Steve said, an edge of exasperation seeping into his tone. "Bucky's deal took months to hammer out. I didn't want word getting around about him, and, besides, 'Captain America Re-Enlists' isn't a headline I want seen all over creation right now. It wouldn't do anyone any good."
Wouldn't do Bucky any good. There Steve went again, circling everything back to Barnes. He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Sometimes he wondered about the character—the monster—the Army's PR machine had created back during the war. Where did "Captain America" end and Steve Rogers begin? Or was there even a distinction anymore? On the one hand, it was Captain America's legendary status that had gotten him into the Pentagon and into the White House to make the deals for Bucky's safety, but on the other, knowledge that Captain America was out there hunting HYDRA and the Winter Soldier could easily get Bucky killed, if the wrong people found out about it.
Steve blinked, realizing that Natasha was speaking again.
"—and you should have asked one of us to come along."
He frowned. "My orders weren't addressed to 'Steve Rogers plus one.' Part of the deal is that I'm available for certain ops, whenever I might be needed. They called, I was needed, so I'm available."
They fell into an uncomfortable silence for a while. The plane's engines had cranked on, filling the pressurized cabin with a loud hum. He felt the plane begin to move, preparing for takeoff.
"Are you still angry with me?" Natasha asked quietly, keeping her eyes on the rear bulkhead.
He looked over at her, then huffed softly. "I was, for a while, but not anymore. You were right, you couldn't have kept him there, and if he wants to stay away that's his choice." Steve's throat tightened at the words, but he continued. "But, that doesn't mean I can't go and try to convince him otherwise."
"He's trying to protect you, in his own way," Natasha said.
"I know," Steve said, beginning to feel the sadness well up again. "He's always been an idiot." Not enjoying the feeling, he changed the subject. "How are you going to explain being here?"
Romanoff looked at him with an expression of pure innocence. "I have my orders." She produced an envelope, complete with official Army markings. At Steve's arched eyebrow, she smiled. "Tony and Clint are amazingly adept at forgery, as it turns out. Lieutenant Roman is an Army intelligence specialist assigned to assist Captain Rogers in his current mission...whatever that may be."
Steve chuckled. "I'm sure it has to do with the Wakanda situation. But, all Colonel Schroeder told me was to meet up with Rhodey on an aircraft carrier, and he gave me a flight plan. I'm supposed to be briefed when I get there."
Natasha grunted in acknowledgement. "Well, what do you want to do for the next nine hours?"
"You got any cards?" Steve said, smiling.
"No. You could tell me how your date with Sharon went."
Steve looked at her, narrowing his eyes. "How did you know about—"
Romanoff crossed her arms. "You have your secrets, I have mine, Steve."
CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS
New York City
2:30 AM
"Committing American troops to defend Wakanda is a huge strategic blunder on the part of the President. We're still involved in the Middle East, the Russians are re-emerging as a serious threat, and we have our own terrorist threat here at home—"
"Wakanda is the only stable government in East Africa, and one of the few that are friendly with the West. King T'Challa would never have been deposed in the first place if certain players in our government hadn't aided his enemies—"
"Alexander Pierce is dead. Ellis can't send American troops all over the world cleaning up S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mistakes. It only weakens our—"
"Off," Tony said with a sigh. The rerun of "The Situation Room" on the television monitor went dark. The talking heads employed by TV news seemed to be getting more obnoxious—and ignorant—every year.
"You think that's why Rhodey and Steve had to leave?" Pepper asked, leaning against his shoulder.
"Maybe," Tony shrugged, frowning into his snifter of brandy. "Probably. Romanoff will let us know. Pierce created the mess over there, so it stands to reason that means HYDRA is involved. Steve and Rhodey have had a lot of experience busting them up lately..."
"I still can't believe Steve didn't say something to us about it."
Stark huffed a laugh. "Captain Boy Scout is nothing if not patriotic. If Ellis asked to him to go over there and to keep it quiet, Rogers would." His smirk faded into a frown. "But, I dunno...he's different. Ever since this stuff with Barnes started, he's...I don't know. He's even keeping Wilson at arm's length."
"Natasha's worried about him, too," Pepper said, moving so she rested her head on his chest.
"I never said I was worried," Tony objected. Pepper angled her head to stare at him. He returned it, playfully daring her to correct him.
Pepper didn't press the point. "We should get some sleep. We've got a lot to do before the fundraiser Friday night."
"No, we don't," Tony said. "Because we're not going to the fundraiser Friday night."
"The governor's going to be there, and if you want your Arc reactor power plant idea to see the light of day, we need to make nice with him."
"The man tried to make me cough up sixty billion dollars to clean up the city after the Chitauri invasion."
"The official estimate was over a hundred and sixty billion—"
"And would be a lot more if we hadn't stopped them. He shouldn't have blamed me for any of it!" Tony cried.
Pepper sighed wearily. "He was running for office. He was just pointing the finger at you to get votes."
"I didn't appreciate it."
"I'm just saying, the man's almost certainly going to be the next Vice President. The power plant project needs his support, not to mention he'll end up in charge of NASA, so there's also the space probe you and Jane want to build. We don't have to like him, just play nice with him."
"We're not going."
"Yes, we are."
CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS
Montclair, New Jersey
3:00 AM
James sat silently in the darkened room, awaiting the arrival of his target. It wasn't the first time he'd waited inside someone's house for them to arrive, nor was it even the first time he'd waited in a target's bedroom. Nor, sadly, was this the youngest target he'd ever been assigned.
He was, however, the noisiest target James had ambushed.
The teenager sounded like a small avalanche as he climbed the stairs of the brownstone and slipped clumsily into his bedroom. James suppressed a smile when the boy rather comically took great care in quietly closing the door once he was inside.
"Your mother must be a heavy sleeper if that's the stealthiest you can be," James said quietly from his perch between the room's two windows.
"Holy—!"The teenager spun around, slamming himself against the closed door and frantically digging a small cylinder out of his pocket. "Stay back! I—I have pepper spray!"
James calmly pulled one of his knives and held it up so the moonlight glinted off the blade. "I can put this through your eye socket before you get within range. Plus, your sprayer is empty." He could hear the clink of the empty metal canister from where he sat.
Stymied, the teenager reached over slowly and clicked on the overhead light. James didn't move: he was well out of sight from any prying eyes outside where he sat on the broad window sill. James took a moment to verify the boy's identity. Male, seventeen, 5-foot-5, 118-pounds wet. Maybe. Blond hair. Gray eyes. "Hiram Riddley?"
"H-how do you know my name? Who are you?"
James ignored the questions, mentally checking the boy's face against the photo he had in his notes. "You go by the name "Ram1986" on the Internet?"
Curiosity was beginning to override terror, if James read the kid's face correctly, but the terror was still there. Good. "That's—that's right."
"You run a website called 'The Stars and Stripes Hotline,' which I assume from the design is a Captain America joke of some kind." James said. "You've been filtering the S.H.I.E.L.D. data files that were uploaded last year, raising public awareness—at least on the Internet—of some of their worst secrets. Why?"
He could see that Riddley's curiosity was sinking back toward fear again. "Are you here to...silence me, or something?"
James held his gaze. "No."
"Then why are you here?"
"I asked you, first." James replied.
Riddley frowned, inching toward an aluminum baseball bat that was propped in the corner by his closet. James inclined his head toward it. "Knife, eye socket, remember? Don't do anything stupid, kid. If I wanted to hurt you I would have done it by now."
"Why are you here?" Riddley asked nervously.
James sighed softly. "Why is a seventeen year old so concerned with government secrets that he spends hours at a time sorting through them and spreading them so other people will see?"
The boy seemed to consider that for a moment, then settled uncomfortably against the wall by the closet. "My dad...he worked for S.H.I.E.L.D.. They told us that when Captain America exposed HYDRA...my dad tried to stop those ships from launching. They gunned him down."
"So, this is personal for you?" James asked quietly. He could see the anger in the kid's eyes from where he sat.
"Yeah."
James nodded. "Then, we have something in common." He pointed at the desk by the left window, which was liberally covered with computers and spare parts. "Do you think you could help me with this?" He pulled out the hard-drive that he'd ripped out of the computer in the bank vault after he'd killed his handlers, and showed it to Riddley.
Riddley stepped forward, staring at the dusty piece of equipment with fascination. "Did somebody...rip that out of a computer?"
"Do you think you can get any information off of this?" James asked, again ignoring the question. The less Riddley knew, the better.
He wasn't entirely sure what was on it, himself, besides some of his own medical information. But, after the two cells in the Southwest, all of James' leads on HYDRA had run dry. He'd attempted to look through the data Natalia—he had trouble thinking of her as Natasha—had uploaded, but while he was familiar with computers and their uses, he was woefully inexperienced in navigating the Internet on his own. He had stumbled upon Riddley's website almost by accident.
The boy took the hard-drive out of James' hand and walked it over to his desk. He paused and looked up at James. "So, how did you find me?"
James frowned. "I found your website, and did a search for your 'Ram' pseudonym. I found a story your local news ran about you a few months ago."
"You saw that?" Riddley asked brightly.
"Yes. That was incredibly stupid." James replied. "The people whose information you're spreading aren't exactly the kind you want to give your address."
Riddley's face fell a little, and he lowered his voice. "Those bastards killed my dad. I'm not afraid of them."
James shook his head. For some reason, his thoughts turned to Steve. "You should be."
Apparently unable to counter that, Riddley quietly went back to examining the damaged drive. James just stood behind him and watched. It was mildly interesting, watching the drive being opened up, wires spliced, lights blinking—
"Would you mind not looming over me, please?" Riddley said irritably.
James arched an eyebrow and stepped back. The teen continued to work, pausing to mutter unintelligibly to himself. When James crossed his arms, Riddley stopped and looked up at him. "What was that?"
"What?"
"That noise."
James thought for a moment, then realized that the boy must have heard the servos in his arm moving. He shook his head. "Nothing. Don't worry about it. May I ask you a question?"
Riddley laughed quietly. "That's the first time since you broke in here that you've asked permission for anything."
"I was being polite," James ground out. "Why 'Ram1986?' I don't see anything in your room that shows any interest in rams."
The teen processed that for a few moments, frowning, then shook his head. "No, it's not—it's not the animal or the team, it's ram, like computer ram."
James just stared at him.
Riddley narrowed his eyes. "Random Access Memory, RAM."
James shrugged.
"Great," Riddley sighed and turned back to his work. "I'm being held hostage by a Luddite."
James frowned. "I'm starting to see why you don't have many friends." It was true. His observations hadn't revealed many acquaintances of any kind, outside the mother.
Riddley snorted derisively. "That was rude."
"Kinda on a clock here, kid."
"Well, this is going to take time. Why don't you sit down and try not to think about stabbing me anymore."
"That'll be an effort." James retorted. He suppressed a smirk when the kid's face went a few shades paler. He settled back by the windows, resting his back against the wall. It was going to be a long night.
TBC
A/N: Hiram Riddley appeared in Captain America #313 in 1986, as a kid who ran a patriotic phone hotline, fielding calls about potential threats around the country that needed Cap's attention. I found him buried in Marvel's wiki page, and decided to update him for this story.
The figures for the damage done to NYC are real. A research group that specializes in disasters and damage surveys studied "The Avengers" and came up with the $160 billion estimate.
Note on Time: I'm using military time for Steve on his mission, and "normal" time for everyone else. I hope it isn't confusing. I guess the only important thing to know is that the place where Steve is headed is 8 hours ahead of New York.