JSA: Atrocity
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.
Chapter 5
Rex Tyler leaned back in the truck cab and tried to close his eyes. Just then the truck hit a bump and the rig bounced. "Hell, Lee, I'm trying to sleep."
"Sorry, Mr Tyler, just relax."
"I'm trying to relax, Lee. Just stop hitting every damn pothole in the road."
"Whole road's a pothole, Mr Tyler," Lee tried to explain.
Rex cocked back the peak of his black porkpie hat, then turned to look at Lee Munday. He didn't say anything but kept watching Lee, who looked as if he wanted to talk. Rex shrugged and stared at the windshield wipers moving back and forth.
"This damned rain," Lee remarked.
Rex still watched the windshield wipers.
"When I agreed to drive this chemical shipment I never figured it'd be like this."
Rex closed his eyes. "I figured it'd be like this," Rex answered without being asked.
"Why does the owner of a chemical company need to personally deliever a shipment, Mr Tyler?"
"I want to make sure it gets where it has to safe and sound."
"But you're the boss, Mr Tyler! You have little pipsqueaks like me do the dirty work."
Rex thought about that for a moment, then pulled his hat down over his eyes. "Yes, but this is a very dangerous cargo. I don't like to ask people to do something that I wouldn't do myself. Besides, I like to travel, see the country. Good a way as any."
"Good a way as any," Lee repeated, snorting.
Lightning flashed across the narrow two-lane blacktop, illuminating everything on the other side of the windshield for a moment.
"See, you and me, we're different," Lee continued. "I've been doing this driving for you for three years now. You're an important man."
"So what?"
"Believe me, Mr Tyler, you get tired driving along in a truck." Lee jabbed his thumb in the semidarkness toward the rear of the cab.
Rex turned his attention from the windshield wipers to the road ahead of them. More lightning ripped across the sky.
"Hauling dangerous chemicals and poison gas, Lee. It's important work to get it to its destination safely," Rex said.
"This isn't dangerous, is it, Mr Tyler?"
"What do you call VX nerve gas?" Rex asked him.
"Oh, yeah. I mean it is a poison gas, but the stuff is safe in their containers."
"We're just hauling twenty-five 55-gallon drums of the material, Lee. There's three other trucks doing the same thing. Who knows what could happen? What if a lightning bolt hits the truck?"
Rex watched the way Lee was looking at him instead of the road. "What if you drive this rig off the side of the road and we go over the cliff there. Wise up, Lee. Relax, huh?"
Lee was always like this. He was dependable, but a Nervous Nelly. He kept talking so that Rex couldn't sleep.
"Hell," Rex snarled, trying to roll over. He smiled at remembering what it was like to be The Man of the Hour or Hourman. He didn't have to put up so much with the Lee's of the world. But he wanted to make sure this shipment got to its destination at a U.S. Army facility intact. That's why he personally was along for the ride to insure that happened. Tyler Chemicals had won the contract to manufacture the nerve gas for the U.S. government and by golly he was going to make sure nothing happened to it along the way.
They were hauling the nerve agent known as VX. It was several times more toxic than sarin but less volatile. It could kill a man within minutes if inhaled or deposited on the skin. Protection from VX would require both protective suits and masks. The compound was first prepared in the 1950s during research for new insecticides. Its chemical formula is classified by the U.S. government as secret. But Rex knew what the formula was now. It was really nasty stuff.
If the nerve gas were to fall into the wrong hands -- it was too horrible of a thing to even consider.
What some evil person could do with twenty-five 55-gallon drums of VX he and Lee were hauling -- or the seventy-five others that three other rigs were hauling -- was just terrifying to think about.
"Dammit," he said, and sat up. He couldn't sleep.
***
Rex was at the wheel. The truck was stopped. Rain was pelting down now with such force he could see the raindrops bounce off the Mack's hood. Between the moving windshield wipers he watched two disguised Military Policemen who drove the pilot car in front of them.
The owner of Tyler Chemicals had eaten three hamburgers at the truck stop and drunk more coffee than he knew was good for him. The rain was still pouring down. He stared out the window. They'd be moving soon, when the MP's were all situated and ready to lead them once again.
Rex's mind drifted back to the cargo they were carrying. Nerve gases were pretty nasty stuff. They were first developed by Germany during World War II but were not used at that time. The gases could cause death by asphyxiation, often preceded by such symptoms as blurred vision, excessive salivation, and convulsions. Physiologically, the toxic effect of nerve gases arose because they inactivate the enzyme cholinesterase, which normally controls the transmission of nerve impulses. The impulses continue without control, causing breakdown of respiration and other body functions.
"Twenty-five drums," Rex murmured. Twenty-five drums that if used in the prescribed manner could probably take out all of New York City and then some.
He shrugged. He wiggled his toes in his boots, staring at the toes for a moment. Then he straightened himself. He was beginning to think that Lee was right -- this really wasn't something for a company owner to be doing.
***
The Boomer sat staring down at the open shackles between his legs, tossing the keys in the air, then catching them again. He was listening to False-Face whistling a tune. The pleasant sounds came from the open bathroom door. The Boomer wondered what False-Face really looked like but supposed he was better off not knowing.
"F.F.?"
"Yes?" the voice called back.
"Why do you need me? There are others who can plant bombs. You do it well. I should know --" he laughed "-- I taught you."
They were in a small house located in a rural area of Hamburg. The house was evidently lived in -- there wasn't so much as a speck of dust on the coffee table beside which he sat. He turned his attention now from the shackles to the fireplace. A fire had been burning when they arrived. The sedan they had driven had been abandoned on a side road four miles or so back and the two dead policemen rolled out into a ditch.
The Boomer looked toward the bathroom as he heard footsteps. "F.F.?"
The figure that greeted him now was not that of Durkey, the British police inspector, but rather an attractive, dark-haired woman dressed as an airline stewardess. Other than the height -- and the three-inch heels helped that -- the disguise was perfect ... feminine, beautiful. "What's this?"
"Call it an economical way of traveling without my luggage being searched."
The voice changed, rising half an octave but not sounding at all strained or faked. The Boomer felt embarrassed thinking it, but the voice sounded like that of his deceased mother.
"Coffee, tea, or --" Then the voice changed back. False-Face laughed. He walked across the room and sat at the far end of the couch, his skirt pulled demurely over his knees. He brushed an auburn curl back from his forehead. As he talked, he opened the purse that was on his lap. The combination of masculine voice and feminine appearance was almost too much for Boomer to concentrate on what False-Face was saying.
"My dear Boomer, you are a specialist. You are terrible at assassinations, clumsy with a knife. That policeman you killed just before you were captured -- how awkward. You are worse with a gun." False-Face touched up his lipstick in a compact mirror. "But you are a genius with explosives and chemicals. And I will give you the ultimate challenge. When you get to America, of course."
"I do not understand. I have never been to America."
"A beautiful country. The people are ridculously friendly and trusting, the scenery in some places more beautiful than one can imagine. And anyway, our explosives and chemicals are there."
"What kind of explosives and chemicals?"
False-Face ignored the question, closing his purse. He stood up, smoothing the skirt down along his thighs as he walked to the bar.
The Boomer noticed his hands -- the nails were long and painted pink.
"Do you go to the movies?"
"Yes, I like the movies, F.F."
"I studied long and hard to be an actor. I played in some films. In one I played a henchman to a supervillian fighting a super-hero -- can you imagine?"
"Yes," Boomer replied.
False-Face frowned as he poured himself a glass of sparkling wine. "A drink, Boomer?"
"No, not now."
"Champagne goes with the role I play," False-Face explained, sipping at the wine. "In America, by the way, they use flat glasses for champagne -- boorish."
The Boomer watched him, just then noticing the proper champagne glass -- tulip shaped -- that False-Face drank his wine from. "But --"
"I need you to help me reverse that supervillian image, Boomer. The villian always wants to dominate the world for some sinister purpose." False-Face walked around the bar, easing himself up onto a bar stool, crossing his shaven legs.
The legs were good looking, Boomer thought.
"One could say I'm a villian. At least by conventional standards I certainly am. And I do plan to dominate the world." False-Face stirred him champagne until it fizzled, using his left index finger. He sucked the champagne from his finger.
"Stop it, F.F.!"
False-Face laughed, sliding down from the bar stool. "Old friend, to play a role one must live a role."
"I do not understand this world domination, this --"
"You will help me -- so that I may actually irrevocably rule the world, create the new order we both serve. That's all I can say for now. Will you help me, Boomer, as only you can?"
The Boomer studied False-Face's eyes. They were icy blue. They were a little insane, too, he thought. But he nodded. "Yes, yes, F.F. I will help you -- in this thing, in all things."
The graceful right hand reached out to him. The champagne glass was set down.
The Boomer took the hand. The grip was more powerful than a vise.
"Good," False-Face said in his own voice. Then in his feminine voice he whispered, "Such a dear man you are, Boomer." And he laughed.
***
Dr Charles McNider comes in contact with False-Face. McNider and Diana Prince try to convince Ted Grant to help reform the JSA in chapter 6
***
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