Red America: Western Front

Chapter Ten: Exit Wounds

Commissar-Colonel Elisabeth Braddock felt the breeze blow past her face, gently brushing her skin with warm gusts of air as the armoured personnel carrier she was travelling in trundled slowly through the streets of San Francisco. She watched the numerous members of the proletariat on the sidewalks and in the shops that adjoined them freezing in their tracks as the heavily armoured vehicle moved along the road, barely missing the cars parked along its route. She enjoyed the sensation of apprehension and fear that she could feel wafting upwards from their minds, as if they were afraid that this mighty column of metal and human military power was coming for them and them alone. She smiled cruelly, watching them almost visibly cringe as her gaze passed across them, and then ducked back inside the armoured shell of her transport. Unholstering her pistol, she began trailing her gloved fingers across it gently, as if trying to calm it before the battle that she knew was coming, and then slipped it back into its holster, clipping the clasp closed and then taking her seat at the front of the transport. From there, she could see the half-dozen or so troopers who had been allocated this vehicle as their method of deployment, and basked in the feeling of pride and awe that she could sense coming from every last soldier. Clearly they were all honoured to be a part of this mission, as well as to be in the same vehicle as a hero of the Revolution such as herself. Elisabeth wasn't a vain woman – or at least she liked to think she wasn't, a thought which she knew pushed her further towards the very thing she professed not to be – but she invariably enjoyed the admiration her troops showed for her. She had to admit, though, that while they were under her command, her soldiers were very important to her, which was probably why they liked her so much. "Never leave a man behind" had been her motto as a rank-and-file trooper, and while she had learnt not to be so naïvely optimistic as a commander, the idea itself was sound. It was always better, she thought, to cultivate positive images about herself than to be viewed as a monster who threw her troops into a meat grinder just because she could. Of course, if that was the only option, then she would have very few problems with implementing it, but otherwise she preferred not to be perceived as an unrelenting butcher; at least not in public. She offered the nearest soldier, a Private Jameson, a small smile of encouragement, trying to quell the wavering nerves she could feel knotting in his guts without the aid of her powers. Immediately she felt a sudden glow of appreciation spreading through his body, and she said "Remember, Private: a soldier is only as good as the man standing next to him, so I'm expecting the best from each and every one of you men today. You'll make me proud, won't you?"

"Yes, sir," Private Jameson said, his voice still wavering a little. "Of course, sir."

"Good. That's what I like to hear," Elisabeth replied. "The Revolution needs bravery if it's going to succeed." Sitting back in her seat, she put a hand to her temple and pushed her mind out of her skull, looking for the presence of the Crimson Commando. After all, without him, this exercise was going to be a spectacular waste of time and manpower, and she hated to waste anything. It took a few moments for her to thread her way around the numerous minds that lay in between her and the soldier she was trying to contact, but once she had found him, the connection went as taut as a mooring line. Report, Mr Barton, she said. Where are you at the moment?

Tell you the truth, sir, I'm kinda busy right now, came the reply. Can we talk after I've finished this?

Elisabeth raised an eyebrow at his cryptic response, and used her link to propel her mind into the Crimson Commando's brain for a split second, so that she could see and hear what he was seeing. All around him she could see and hear the rebels he had infiltrated, and she saw that they were moving through some sparsely-populated streets away from the urban centre of the city. Occasional passers-by caused him and the rest of the squad to duck back into cover as if they were hiding from the Red Army itself, but otherwise they seemed fairly untroubled by any sort of opposition. She tweaked his brain a little in order to make him look around at his companions, as if she were remote-controlling a security camera, and she saw a heavily-scarred girl with short, wavy blonde hair whose apparently perpetually-grinning face was covered with dirt, blood and grime, a young man who was carrying a pilfered heavy machine gun, a baby-faced teenager who looked barely old enough to pick up a gun… and then she saw something that made her fists clench in fury. The other members of the squad were rebels she had seen before, in New York. The rebels Madrox, Reyes and McCoy were of little consequence, but seeing the girl she'd identified as Kitty Pryde made her blood boil. She wasn't used to having almost certified kills slip away from her, and the Pryde girl had been one of those. That alone was reason to send the little bitch to a labour camp, Elisabeth decided sourly. Then a thin, sadistic sneer crossed her lips.

Perhaps a labour camp was too kind. Perhaps, instead of making her work her hands to the bone in Alaska, the girl would be of more use elsewhere. All it would take would be a few surgical cuts to her psyche, after all, and she would become little more than ill-formed clay, ready to be remoulded into something that the Red Army could use to its heart's content. Elisabeth smiled to herself. Yes, that seemed like an appropriate revenge for what that wretched girl had done to her. And doing it now would (to a small degree at least) make up for not having done so when the two of them had met the first time.

We are going to talk now, Crimson Commando, she said forcefully, returning her mind to her subordinate with just a touch of difficulty. Can you have your new friends move towards our position? Transmitting some co-ordinates through the psychic link, she felt Barton digesting the information thoughtfully.

I think it'd be better if you came to us, sir, he suggested. We're close to the city limits, and you're asking me to tell these guys we need to take a detour back inside the Red Army cordon. I don't think that would go down too well.

Very well, Elisabeth replied, feeling her jaw tense involuntarily. In that case, try to delay their movement as much as you can. My troops will be with you shortly.

Yes, ma'am, Barton said. I'll do my best. One last thing, though: we're in the sewers at the moment. If I can get them to go above ground again, I will, but you should be prepared to send some troops down here to flush them out.

I see. I suppose we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it, then. Elisabeth cut the psychic connection quickly, before she picked up her pistol and racked the slide, the familiar action lending her a little relief after the unpleasant surprise of seeing Kitty Pryde again. Putting the gun back in its holster, she clenched her fists once more and laid them in her lap, wrapping her left hand around her right and squeezing so that all four knuckles cracked loudly. Switching her grip, she did the same to her other hand, and then flexed both sets of fingers briefly.

"Sir?"

Elisabeth looked up, to see Lieutenant Wagner looking back at her with an expression of concern on his fur-covered features. "Yes, Lieutenant?" she asked in a clipped tone.

Lieutenant Wagner raised his eyebrows for a moment, his yellow eyes glittering in the low light of the armoured personnel carrier. "Are you all right, sir? If I may be so bold, you seem a little restless. Can I be of any assistance?"

"No, Lieutenant, I'm fine," Elisabeth said. "My contact with the Crimson Commando was… interesting, put it that way. I'm looking forward to our rendezvous even more now than I was before. Tell Comrade Stark we will be needing his services in order to back up the volunteers of Project Sickle."

"Ja, Comrade-Colonel," Lieutenant Wagner said obediently, and then touched the comm-bead at his collar, opening up a channel to the communications system that had been recently installed in Tony Stark's metal behemoth. The Iron Man suit had been extensively modified and upgraded by Stark (who had finally allowed Soviet mechanics to help him after one of the ammo feeds on the suit's arm cannon had buckled) so that it was fully combat-ready, its patchwork circuits and weapons now functioning at least somewhat efficiently. "Comrade Stark, Commissar-Colonel Braddock requires that you deploy immediately behind the squad and provide them with covering fire. Do not engage the rebels on your own unless otherwise advised. Is that clear?"

Elisabeth heard a muffled reply on the other end of the radio link, and smiled with welcome amusement. From her brief contact with the arrogant American traitor, she knew that that order had to be chafing at his sizeable ego. Good, she thought, stifling a laugh. Perhaps that will lend him some humility. He certainly needs it. Reaching into a pocket of her greatcoat, she took out a small hammer-and-sickle pin and attached it to her coat's black lapel, just above the buttonhole. She didn't really hold with the idea of good or bad luck, but she liked to have something with her that reminded her of the reason for which she was fighting this war.

Clint shook his head angrily as Commissar Braddock's mind slid out of it, like a blade slicing its way through the edge of an open wound. Squeezing his eyes shut for a second, he forced as much of the mind-witch's thick, oily taint out of his mind as he could, but he could still feel traces of her lingering on behind his thoughts. He wondered for a second whether everybody she talked to that way felt like this, or if she'd done it on purpose, just to let him know who was really in charge here. Grimacing, he took a deep breath and muttered "I'm stronger than you, you bitch."

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" the girl called Kitty said icily, looking at him through the corner of her eye. "Do you have a problem with me, Clint?"

"What?" Clint said, and then silently cursed himself for his carelessness. "No, I was talking to myself."

"Is that right? Something you're not telling us, 'Mr' Barton?" Madrox replied, raising an eyebrow. "Or is being a bitch just a weekend thing?"

Clint sighed. "Okay. You know how it is when you get bad memories surfacing just when you don't want them to, right? This was one of those times. It was my ex-wife I was talking to, if you really must know. She always did know how to ruin my fun."

"Really. Well, try to keep your private conversations with your ex-wife private, please," Kitty said, putting her hands on her hips. "I don't need you getting into a one-sided argument with her just when we need you to be quiet, okay?"

"Sure, chief. Whatever you say," Clint replied, throwing her a theatrical mock-salute. "I'll try to keep her under control." He closed his hand around the grip of his pistol again, and began following Kitty as she paced through the sewer tunnel to which the squad had retreated for ease of mobility (now that the Iron Man suit wasn't with them, Kitty had thought there was really no reason for them to travel above ground for any longer than necessary), somehow avoiding the rats and garbage that swirled around the boots of the other rebels. It was only when he saw one of the infrequent breezes stir up a sheet of newspaper and then blow it right through her head that he realised how she was doing it, and at that point he realised just exactly why the rebels needed this girl. With abilities like that, she was a priceless asset to whoever she was fighting with, and he wondered whether he should ask Commissar Braddock if he ought to spare her life because of that one simple fact. He sidestepped a clutch of squealing rats, kicking lightly at the ones that got too close to his boots, and moved up beside her, keeping his muscles as tensed as he could. If they ran into a particularly adventurous squad of Red Army soldiers, there was no telling how messy things could get down here in the tunnels, with the conditions as cramped and unpleasant as they were. Touching his fingers to the grimy floor and then raising them to his nostrils, he sniffed his fingertips, trying to determine any recognisable scents (engine oil, boot polish, gun-metal, and so on). He cursed when he could find nothing, but then went over the co-ordinates burned in his mind once again. They were more or less straight ahead, so finding the "enemy" was less important than simply walking forwards and waiting for the trap to be sprung. He wiped his hand on his fatigue pants, and then nodded in the direction he was facing. "This way," he said shortly. "I think this is the best way for us to go."

McCoy raised a shaggy eyebrow. "How can you be certain? There isn't anything to distinguish this particular tunnel from all the others we've encountered, after all."

"Trust me," Clint said, shrugging, and then he tapped the side of his nose with a fingertip. "The nose knows." Kitty shrugged, an expression of pragmatic thoughtfulness crossing her face for a moment or two.

"Lead the way," she said, ushering him forwards with a sweep of her arm. Clint nodded without another word, and then proceeded down the tunnel, trailing his fingers briefly along the crumbling brick wall as he did so. Behind him he could hear the young girl Jubilation griping loudly about the notion of having to move through the sewer again, and he grinned to himself. Despite the fact that these people were technically the enemy, he found himself liking the little brat. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind and didn't care whether or not it was appropriate to do so, which appealed to him a great deal. He hadn't heard that kind of spiky spontaneity for a long time; not since he'd joined the Red Army, in fact.

He'd feel sorry when the time came to kill her; of that much he was certain.

"Damn it, Wade," David North muttered, gritting his teeth as his companion busily twisted wires around soft clumps of plastic explosive. "How the hell do you think you're going to get that much C4 past Commissar Braddock's security? I don't think they'd just let you waltz in and stick it under her desk, do you?"

"Oh, ye of little faith," Wilson replied, not taking his eyes off his work for a second. "I'm not going to go anywhere near her office. The thing is, Commissar Braddock has a routine she sticks to as if her life depended on it. Well, soon it will." He chuckled crazily to himself. "See, every day at eight-thirty in the morning she goes to the gym here at the base, and stays there for an hour and a half without fail. She only breaks that routine for really good reasons – so I'm thinking we plant a few pounds of the wonder putty under the floor of the gym the night before, and then set it off while she's getting her morning sweat on. Sound like a good idea to you?"

"I think it sounds like an insane idea," North said bluntly. "Unfortunately, it also sounds like the best idea we've come up with so far – and with Braddock's psychics breathing down our necks, that's what we need." He paused, and ran both of his hands through his hair. "Unless you want to get caught, of course."

Wilson shrugged. "It'd be a new experience – but no, I think I'll pass. Now... why don't we get started?" With an underarm swing, he threw a block of plastic explosive towards North, who caught it one-handed, scowling all the while. His grin widened when he saw North's pained expression, and he spread his arms wide. "Come on, Dave; it'll be fun, I promise."

"Guess your definition of 'fun' and mine don't really match up," North replied, gritting his teeth. He squeezed the lump of explosive in his hand, leaving deep furrows in its soft surface, and took a deep breath. "All right. Let's do this."

"That's the spirit!" Wilson chuckled. "With that attitude we'll be all set before you know it!"

"You're an idiot, Wade, you know that?" North said with a snort, looking of the window at the smoky grey clouds flitting across the skyline.

"Sure I do," Wilson said, before adding "Hey, at least I admit it."

North raised his eyebrows for a second. Wade did have a point, he supposed. "I'm going to go get something to eat. You want to come?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be even before he spoke. Wade shook his head and began concentrating on his explosives again. Shaking his head slightly, North left the small room and began walking down towards the cafeteria area. It wasn't much, but at least he could get a half-decent cup of coffee and some halfway-edible food. He folded his hands into fists in order to keep the shaking he could feel in them to a minimum, and increased his pace until he was in the confines of the cafeteria itself. Walking up to the counter, he picked out a pre-packaged sandwich that contained cured ham and processed cheese, and ordered a strong black coffee. Handing over a few roubles to the woman at the till, he picked up his food and made his way over to a free table, sitting down and pulling a folded piece of paper from the top pocket of his jacket. It was a letter from his mother, which he'd not had time to read since it had arrived, full of the usual statements that he'd come to expect from his parents – how much they missed him, how much they wished he would come to visit them when he was on leave, and if they were ever going to see him get a wife and children. He had to admit, though, that robotic as their sentiments were, they were still of great comfort right now.

"I'm sorry, do you mind if I sit here?"

North snapped his head up, startled, and saw a statuesque blonde woman standing in the aisle next to his table, who he'd never seen before. Given the size of the facility here, it was plausible that she had simply never had cause to venture into his unit's area of the base, but it still didn't sit too well with him, and he made sure to keep his internal defences up just in case. "I haven't seen you around here before," he said, truthfully, and the woman smiled.

"I've just been transferred here from New York," she said. "Commissar Braddock wants me to help with some of the more complex science projects here, apparently." She paused, and took a bite out of her roll. "But since the scheduling here is a little... slow, I have nothing to do today. So... I thought I'd take a walk and start getting to know people here. What's your name, soldier?"

"Lieutenant David North," he replied.

"Pleased to meet you, David," the woman said with a broad smile, as she extended her hand. "My name is Emma. Emma Frost..."