JSA: If Looks Could Kill
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 13
The weather in Florida was not at all to False-Face's liking. The air was clear and clean and he liked that. But it was hot.
He looked skyward. When the detonation took place, it would rain VX nerve gas upon America's fledging space program at Cape Canaveral. He smiled at the thought. It was all working out better than he had hoped.
He watched as the technicians unloaded the crate from the F-4, then carefully transferred it to the van. "Be careful with that," he urged, "or there will be serious repercussions."
It was, after all, a dangerous weapon.
The Air Force personnel were nearly through loading it. He started toward the van, watching with mild interest as the device was secured inside. The last of the loading crew jumped out to the runway surface and nearly lost his balance. False-Face reached out to support the man at his elbow. "Thank you, major," the young man nodded.
False-Face flashed a smile. He turned and addressed the man heading the work crew. "Corporal, as your officer instructed you, this is of the highest priority. Tell no one of what you have seen here, no one of even any slight suspicion you might have as to the contents of this container," he said as he gestured inside the van. "The continued security of the United States, of the very loved ones whom you represent in uniform, is at stake. Suffice to say, this involves the foiling of a communist plot. I have told you and your men more than I should have."
He watched the glow of pride in the corporal's eyes, the straightening of the shoulders of the men of the work crew.
"I salute you," False-Face said and did.
The corporal closed the van doors and False-Face walked toward the driver's door.
He boarded the van and gunned the engine to life. It was more than a fifteen-mile drive to the space center at Cape Canaveral.
And his destiny.
***
They had gotten airborne almost immediately after arriving at Idlewood Airport. The Sandman was continually on the radio, conferring with Dr Mid- Nite at JSA headquarters, Air Force personnel, the Federal Aviation Administration and the Pentagon. Sandman had agreed to intercept False-Face would result in one of two possible occurrences -- False-Face would change identity and set the nerve gas device for remote detonation; or if False- Face were unable to escape, he would simply detonate the device and possibly issue some low frequency radio signal to have the other ninety- eight detonated.
The potential end of civilization was not a cheery prospect.
"You look nervous, my friend," came The Sandman's voice, interrupting my thoughts.
I looked up from the flight controls and replied, "I am nervous."
"About False-Face?" asked Sandman.
"Nervousness won't help that," I responded.
"Then about what would happen if we don't stop him?" The Sandman wondered.
"Yes," I said, "perhaps a little nervous about that."
"You always come up on top of evil," said Sandman in a magnanimous tone.
I dismissed that, asking instead, "Will they give us the information of where False-Face landed?"
"Just waiting for a message from Diana," The Sandman explained. "She has to contact some senior people and is trying to get permission to allow us to apprehend False-Face in our own way. As of yet, it has been unconfirmed where he has landed in Florida. It is a big state. Apparently his counterfeit orders are so good in appearance that they are being obeyed, and superceding their security restrictions is difficult."
***
She heard him opening the door, heard his patronizing voice. "Remember, honey, if you've worked off that blindfold again, I'm gonna make you eat this stuff with your hands tied behind your back, make you lick it out of your bowl like a dog."
She smiled. She had worked her hands loose, after they had been tied again, this time in front of her, following the scraps of food she had been given that morning. She had been given no clothes to wear, and no plumbing, not even a bucket, had been provided for her use. She had resorted to making catholes in the earthern floor with her toes and covering them with dirt, which she kicked in place.
She hated.
She waited.
These idiots had no idea who they were dealing with.
The man who had brought her breakfast had secured the blindfold after tying her once more. He hadn't even seemed concerned that she had worked it free.
She hated him more for that.
He had worn a pistol on his belt. She had to get the gun.
She waited. He passed through the doorway. "You behind that door waitin' for me, huh?" he said. There was a mocking tone in his voice.
She was indeed, but hanging from the hook on the inside of the door instead, this giving her a foot's height advantage. As he came around the door, she dropped the noose of rope that had bound her hands over his head, around his neck, with the rope looped over the hook, she threw her weight down to the floor, the other end of the rope secured around her waist. It was a one-shot try. She had to knock the man out with the weight of her body.
She hurtled herself downward, suspended in midair a moment at the level of the backs of his knees.
She fell the rest of the way to the floor, sheilding her head with her arms and hands. He struggled trying to the ropes from his neck. She held on for dear life. He fell to the floor on top of her.
All the breath was forced out of her body. But he had hit his head hard on the floor and was unconscious. Coughing, she dragged herself from under his body. She remembered to undo the knotted rope around her waist -- her ribs ached.
She crawled away from him, staring at him for an instant.
He was knocked out -- maybe worse.
She crawled back toward him, reaching the police-type holster on his trouser belt.
She had the gun in her hands.
She stood up, and moved cautiously toward the door. There was no sound, no sign of alarm. She went back to the unconscious man, her persecutor. She felt through his pockets, finding extra bullets.
She stripped the man of his shirt, and draped it over her naked and bruised body. After a final look around her prison cell she walked through the doorway. She locked the door behind her, and threw the key down the dirt- floored corridor. Clutching the pistol, she started to climb the basement stairs. There was a sound ahead of her, a television set, she guessed. She stopped beneath an open trap door. Slowly, she peered over the floorboards through the opening.
The head of a man was visible above the back of an easy chair. There was a children's cartoon program on the television and the man was laughing at it. Slowly, she climbed the last of the steps, silently praying that a board didn't creak. As she stepped through the opening and onto the rolled- back rug, she looked about the room. There was only the man in the chair. Two men's coats were visible hanging from a hall tree down a hallway.
She would gamble.
One of the cartoon characters fired a gun at the head of another. The second character's head turned black and the hair burned away. In the next scene, the character who had been shot in the head was chasing the other one.
Real life was different. At ten feet, unless there was something fundamentally wrong with the revolver, she couldn't miss. She raised the revolver. Her finger was on the trigger as she took aim.
Then the thought hit her. Catwoman doesn't kill. As much as she should and wanted to kill -- she couldn't. She had her own personal code and that said she was not a killer.
Turning the gun around in her hand, she slowly crept toward the man who sat entranced at the cartoon on the television. Raising the pistol in both hands, she slammed the butt hard on the top of his head. He never knew what hit him. he was out for the count and more. She thought she might had hit him too hard.
She held her breath. There were no shouts, no alarms, no screams, nothing.
She stood there a moment, watching the cartoon. It ended, and a short titles segment followed, then the screen went blank for an instant. Call letters were flashed and an announcer's voice intoned, "The one to watch in Springfield, Illinois."
"Springfield, Illinois?" she repeated. She had heard of the city. It was in south central Illinois, she remembered.
Quickly, she found some extra rope that was laying on a table top. She bound and gagged her unconscious prisoner. She hit him again for good measure. She dragged the couch over to the man and lifted it enough so that she could lay it on top of him. He wasn't going anywhere.
Selina Kyle walked across the room, and stared through the front window. A station wagon was parked in the yard, and chickens and ducks wandered about. Fields covered in snow filled her view. She looked around the house. On the kitchen table, she found car keys. She continued the search and found a folding knife. She left it closed. Her nails were damaged enough. On the coffee table was another revolver.
A gun in each hand, Selina Kyle explored the house further. There were no women's clothes, only the belongings of the two men.
But there was a bathroom. It was a risk, but there were towels and there was even shampoo.
Selina looked down at the stainless steel pistol and shrugged. She set the gun on the edge of the bathtub and turned on the water. When the temperature was right, she stripped off the shirt and stepped inside, leaving the other gun on the sink. She turned up the water.
She had seen something in her eyes in the bathroom mirror, something she was happy to see. Despite the dirt, the unkempt hair, the smell of her flesh, there was a spark of strength and humanity.
They hadn't taken that from her. As she soaped her body, she watched the shiny, wet revolver. It reassured her, but not more than her will reassured her.
***
About four thousand, two hundred people lived in Cape Canaveral -- not counting the tens of thousands who worked at the space center. The cream of American computer, rocket, engineering and less widely known disciplines resided and worked there, freely exchanging ideas on science and technology. The winners of prestigious scientific prizes also called Cape Canaveral home.
False-Face stood before fifty of the finest minds now, summoned here for him in the little scientific community.
Before him on a laboratory table was the nerve gas canister with a bomb attached to it. He began to speak. "This weapon was smuggled into the United States with the express intention of destroying a vital segment of American society, the intention of crippling the United States irreparably." The truth almost always sounded convincing. But his next remarks diverged from it. "It is a Russian secret weapon, sent to destroy us, I alone have been charged to bring this weapon here, to you -- the finest minds available on the East Coast -- for the task. You, Pappas," he said as he looked at a lean-faced, almost sorrowful-looking bearded man wearing a white lab coat, "You were once principal-weapons designer for the United States."
"My research has taken me elsewhere, away from destruction," said the scientist.
"But your skills are still the best," False-Face went on forcefully. "You will hand pick a team to assist you in dismantling the weapon before it can be detonated. We believe this canister to contain VX nerve gas."
There was a sudden sound of gasps and drawn breaths from the scientists.
False-Face continued, "I have ordered the space center and the town of Cape Canaveral sealed and closed. No is to be admitted without my express permission. Nor is anyone to be allowed to leave. Some members of the CIA themselves suspect complicity with the communists." He held a folded section of a lined paper from a pocket notebook high in the air for all to see. "On this slip of paper is the telephone number of operation headquarters. Once you have defused the Russian weapon of mass destruction, you are to call this number, Pappas. Not before. The switchboard has been ordered closed here until you make this call. No incoming or outgoing calls will be allowed. Communist elements are everywhere, I fear."
"But surely we must know something about the nature of this device before we can begin." It was a woman who spoke, and False-Face guessed she belonged to Pappas.
"Madame," he replied, and again he elected the truth, "we believe it is comprised of VX nerve gas. Surely, I don't have to tell you distinguished scientists what that means. I am certain the designer of this instrument arranged detonation to be impossible to avoid. The blast by the bomb will cause the nerve gas to billow into a poisonous cloud that could spread for many miles. The bomb will probably trigger if the slightest mistake is made. Yours is an impossible task -- but it must be accomplished."
"Why was this weapon, this horrible thing, not brought to a bomb-dosposal area, or detonated in some safe location?" asked a dignified-looking white- haired man. He smoked a pipe, and the tobacco smelled very good.
"There are, doctor, ninety-eight other devices similar to this one," False- Face replied. "Circumstances may arise in which more of these will be set against the United States. For that purpose, this device must be defused rather than detonated."
The woman spoke again. "There are ninety-eight more of these -- each with VX nerve gas?" She sounded incredulous.
"Many of these are already in Europe," False-Face went on, "waiting to be set against important cities and installations. It is imperative that you do what you must do." He glanced at his watch and continued, his voice marked with urgency. "There is one further reason why it was brought here and you were not transported to some safer site. Time is critical. In thirty-two minutes and ten seconds, if you cannot disarm it, it will detonate of its own accord." There were cries and gasps. One woman screamed. He saw tears in the eyes of the bearded man, Pappas.
I salute you," he said, "and now I must take my leave." He handed the piece of paper with the phone number written across it to Pappas, turned and walked briskly from the room.
He listened to his own heels clicking on the laboratory floor. He was immensely pleased with himself. But as the laboratory doors -- steel, triple thickness armor-plated steel -- slammed closed with a pneumatic hiss in his wake, he could feel that the JSA was closing in, and perhaps Batman himself as well. He smiled -- it was time to change identities.
***
"I am sorry, gentlemen," the base commander said. "But the orders of Major Garrity take precedence. I witnessed these myself. It is not a breach of security to admit that they were signed by the commander-in-chief of NORAD."
"Those were forged orders, colonel," Batman said politely.
"I have only the word of two men wearing masks and capes, and please believe I mean no disrespect," the colonel smiled.
The Caped Crusader shrugged his shoulders. "I regret having to show you these additional orders, then, colonel." Batman grabbed the Air Force officer's left wrist, pulled, turned the man around quickly as he put one arm around his neck and placed the man's right arm behind his back in a hammer lock.
All that could be heard was the sharp intake of the colonel's breath as he was taken completely by surprise by the sudden quickness of the move.
The Sandman's gas gun appeared in his right fist and he was already aiming it toward the knot of junior officers standing some paces away.
"You freaks -- you're overstepping your authority," challenged the base commander.
"We're on the same side," Batman said severely. "Our authority supercedes yours, colonel. Do you like this part of Florida? There are other spots not so pleasant or as nice as Cape Canaveral -- like Alaska, for example. This man you aided is a Nazi named False-Face. He carries with him a bomb laced with VX nerve gas. He is a mass murderer. He is here to detonate this device and destroy the entire city and America's space program, killing thousands. You must tell us now what we need to know or do you wish to die soon?"
When the Air Force colonel gave no response, The Sandman shrugged. He walked in front of the colonel. He began to speak. He was tired and angry. While Batman watched, Sandman rammed the muzzle of the gas gun against the base commander's crotch. The colonel did not now that the weapon was just a gas gun, he thought it was a gun armed with bullets. Sandman used this psychological advantage. He looked the colonel in the eye through his menacing-looking gas mask. "Tell Batman what he needs to know in ten seconds or I blow your testicles off one at a time. One ... two ... three ... four ..."
***
Sound psychological principles and reason had prevailed, Batman realized. They walked hurriedly now across the airfield to the hangar in which False- Face's F-4 was stored. As they entered the hangar, The Sandman took from his coat a device about the size of a flashlight and began waving it around.
They stopped before the silver-gray F-4. Batman continued to watch the group of officers and men gathering behind them. He flickered his eyes from the men he was watching to The Sandman -- he was sweeping the flashlight- looking device over the open cargo hatch of the F-4.
The masked crimefighter turned around after a small red lightbulb began flashing on his device. "This is a poison gas detection device," Sandman announced. "There is evidence of residual poison gas in the cargo area. You, the officer there," he said, pointing to a man who looked little more than twelve years old, even his hat seemed to big for him. Batman reflected that every branch of the armed forces sent its quartermasters to the same tailoring school -- if it's not so big that it falls off, it fits. "Come here, now!" The Sandman ordered.
The young officer walked forward and stopped less than a yard from Sandman. "Now, lieutenant. Take this device in your hand and sweep the instrument along the open cargo. Announce what your results are."
The young man nodded and held the device in his right hand. He swept it over the open cargo hatch, inside the fuselage, then stopped. He returned the device to The Sandman. Batman watched the man's Adam's apple bob nervously, the shoulders drawn back. "The masked man is correct, there is an indication of poison gas. We have apparently transferred poison gas."
The base commander suddenly decided to ignore any danger the two masked crimefighters may had presented and started forward. Batman did nothing to stop him. The colonel stopped midway between Gotham's avenger and The Sandman and the young lieutenant. "I was wrong," the commander said simply. He turned and saluted Batman and Sandman. "We are at your disposal -- my men, all of us, to stop this madman. If you are somehow deceiving me, I shall kill you with my bare hands. But I cannot afford the risk to the people of this area. What do you want us to do?"
The Sandman nodded toward Batman. "We have fought against False-Face before. We need to retrieve that device False-Face brought here."
"If he's masquerading as an Air Force officer and his orders look that good," said Batman, "he'll probably have turned what police or security are available at the space center wherever against us. It may mean fighting your own people," he added. "No one wants to hurt their own, but we may have to in order to stop False-Face."
***
Batman ceased bothering to count the number of telephone calls that followed. At last, word came through that Cape Canaveral had been closed to motorized traffic going in or out, and the space center was sealed and ringed by security personnel and police from the area.
The base commander set down the telephone. "The most brilliant minds of NASA are there," he explained to Batman. "Everybody knows everybody. Even my wife works in the complex as a research assistant. She was working late tonight." The man's face dripped sweat, but not from the heat of Florida weather, the Caped Crusader realized. "And our van which this False-Face requisitioned, was seen to enter the space center."
Batman closed his eyes. He suddenly realized what False-Face was doing. "He spoke of a dangerous device or something that was being brought here, that it was some horrifying communist plot." The Dark Knight thought aloud. "Let's say he keeps to that idea. He brought the weapon to the science complex. Just to plant it? Why go through more security than he needed?" Batman walked toward the wall map of the area behind the colonel's desk. "There's a reservoir right at the edge of the space center. He could have planted the device, come back here and taken off. Or used some other means of quick exit. This is a setup, I'm sure of it. Are any persons here who were involved or are involved in the nation's weapons of mass destruction program?"
The colonel's eyes flickered, but he did not immediately answer. Batman urgently tried to extricate an answer. "Well?"
Doctor Milt Pappas," the colonel replied.
"Isn't he the one who quit the American weapons designing program? I remember there was a major controversy about it," the Masked Manhunter said.
"He is a man of peace," the base commander shrugged.
"Then I know what he's doing," Batman decided. "He had The Boomer set the device to be tripped off. He's using Pappas and some of the others as his detonator. He probably told them he had this horrible communist weapon and for some reason or another they were the only ones who could disarm it, and that's why he sealed the space center. As they start to dismantle it, they'll detonate it. He likely gave them some sort of time limit to increase the probabilities of them not finding the tripping devices."
"I have helicopters."
Batman looked at the base commander. "You come with us -- we'll need all the influence we can muster if we want to avoid a shooting war with the people guarding the complex."
"There's a helipad on the roof," the commander said.
The Sandman stood up. "Shall we, gentlemen?"
Batman started for the office door.
To be continued ...
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 13
The weather in Florida was not at all to False-Face's liking. The air was clear and clean and he liked that. But it was hot.
He looked skyward. When the detonation took place, it would rain VX nerve gas upon America's fledging space program at Cape Canaveral. He smiled at the thought. It was all working out better than he had hoped.
He watched as the technicians unloaded the crate from the F-4, then carefully transferred it to the van. "Be careful with that," he urged, "or there will be serious repercussions."
It was, after all, a dangerous weapon.
The Air Force personnel were nearly through loading it. He started toward the van, watching with mild interest as the device was secured inside. The last of the loading crew jumped out to the runway surface and nearly lost his balance. False-Face reached out to support the man at his elbow. "Thank you, major," the young man nodded.
False-Face flashed a smile. He turned and addressed the man heading the work crew. "Corporal, as your officer instructed you, this is of the highest priority. Tell no one of what you have seen here, no one of even any slight suspicion you might have as to the contents of this container," he said as he gestured inside the van. "The continued security of the United States, of the very loved ones whom you represent in uniform, is at stake. Suffice to say, this involves the foiling of a communist plot. I have told you and your men more than I should have."
He watched the glow of pride in the corporal's eyes, the straightening of the shoulders of the men of the work crew.
"I salute you," False-Face said and did.
The corporal closed the van doors and False-Face walked toward the driver's door.
He boarded the van and gunned the engine to life. It was more than a fifteen-mile drive to the space center at Cape Canaveral.
And his destiny.
***
They had gotten airborne almost immediately after arriving at Idlewood Airport. The Sandman was continually on the radio, conferring with Dr Mid- Nite at JSA headquarters, Air Force personnel, the Federal Aviation Administration and the Pentagon. Sandman had agreed to intercept False-Face would result in one of two possible occurrences -- False-Face would change identity and set the nerve gas device for remote detonation; or if False- Face were unable to escape, he would simply detonate the device and possibly issue some low frequency radio signal to have the other ninety- eight detonated.
The potential end of civilization was not a cheery prospect.
"You look nervous, my friend," came The Sandman's voice, interrupting my thoughts.
I looked up from the flight controls and replied, "I am nervous."
"About False-Face?" asked Sandman.
"Nervousness won't help that," I responded.
"Then about what would happen if we don't stop him?" The Sandman wondered.
"Yes," I said, "perhaps a little nervous about that."
"You always come up on top of evil," said Sandman in a magnanimous tone.
I dismissed that, asking instead, "Will they give us the information of where False-Face landed?"
"Just waiting for a message from Diana," The Sandman explained. "She has to contact some senior people and is trying to get permission to allow us to apprehend False-Face in our own way. As of yet, it has been unconfirmed where he has landed in Florida. It is a big state. Apparently his counterfeit orders are so good in appearance that they are being obeyed, and superceding their security restrictions is difficult."
***
She heard him opening the door, heard his patronizing voice. "Remember, honey, if you've worked off that blindfold again, I'm gonna make you eat this stuff with your hands tied behind your back, make you lick it out of your bowl like a dog."
She smiled. She had worked her hands loose, after they had been tied again, this time in front of her, following the scraps of food she had been given that morning. She had been given no clothes to wear, and no plumbing, not even a bucket, had been provided for her use. She had resorted to making catholes in the earthern floor with her toes and covering them with dirt, which she kicked in place.
She hated.
She waited.
These idiots had no idea who they were dealing with.
The man who had brought her breakfast had secured the blindfold after tying her once more. He hadn't even seemed concerned that she had worked it free.
She hated him more for that.
He had worn a pistol on his belt. She had to get the gun.
She waited. He passed through the doorway. "You behind that door waitin' for me, huh?" he said. There was a mocking tone in his voice.
She was indeed, but hanging from the hook on the inside of the door instead, this giving her a foot's height advantage. As he came around the door, she dropped the noose of rope that had bound her hands over his head, around his neck, with the rope looped over the hook, she threw her weight down to the floor, the other end of the rope secured around her waist. It was a one-shot try. She had to knock the man out with the weight of her body.
She hurtled herself downward, suspended in midair a moment at the level of the backs of his knees.
She fell the rest of the way to the floor, sheilding her head with her arms and hands. He struggled trying to the ropes from his neck. She held on for dear life. He fell to the floor on top of her.
All the breath was forced out of her body. But he had hit his head hard on the floor and was unconscious. Coughing, she dragged herself from under his body. She remembered to undo the knotted rope around her waist -- her ribs ached.
She crawled away from him, staring at him for an instant.
He was knocked out -- maybe worse.
She crawled back toward him, reaching the police-type holster on his trouser belt.
She had the gun in her hands.
She stood up, and moved cautiously toward the door. There was no sound, no sign of alarm. She went back to the unconscious man, her persecutor. She felt through his pockets, finding extra bullets.
She stripped the man of his shirt, and draped it over her naked and bruised body. After a final look around her prison cell she walked through the doorway. She locked the door behind her, and threw the key down the dirt- floored corridor. Clutching the pistol, she started to climb the basement stairs. There was a sound ahead of her, a television set, she guessed. She stopped beneath an open trap door. Slowly, she peered over the floorboards through the opening.
The head of a man was visible above the back of an easy chair. There was a children's cartoon program on the television and the man was laughing at it. Slowly, she climbed the last of the steps, silently praying that a board didn't creak. As she stepped through the opening and onto the rolled- back rug, she looked about the room. There was only the man in the chair. Two men's coats were visible hanging from a hall tree down a hallway.
She would gamble.
One of the cartoon characters fired a gun at the head of another. The second character's head turned black and the hair burned away. In the next scene, the character who had been shot in the head was chasing the other one.
Real life was different. At ten feet, unless there was something fundamentally wrong with the revolver, she couldn't miss. She raised the revolver. Her finger was on the trigger as she took aim.
Then the thought hit her. Catwoman doesn't kill. As much as she should and wanted to kill -- she couldn't. She had her own personal code and that said she was not a killer.
Turning the gun around in her hand, she slowly crept toward the man who sat entranced at the cartoon on the television. Raising the pistol in both hands, she slammed the butt hard on the top of his head. He never knew what hit him. he was out for the count and more. She thought she might had hit him too hard.
She held her breath. There were no shouts, no alarms, no screams, nothing.
She stood there a moment, watching the cartoon. It ended, and a short titles segment followed, then the screen went blank for an instant. Call letters were flashed and an announcer's voice intoned, "The one to watch in Springfield, Illinois."
"Springfield, Illinois?" she repeated. She had heard of the city. It was in south central Illinois, she remembered.
Quickly, she found some extra rope that was laying on a table top. She bound and gagged her unconscious prisoner. She hit him again for good measure. She dragged the couch over to the man and lifted it enough so that she could lay it on top of him. He wasn't going anywhere.
Selina Kyle walked across the room, and stared through the front window. A station wagon was parked in the yard, and chickens and ducks wandered about. Fields covered in snow filled her view. She looked around the house. On the kitchen table, she found car keys. She continued the search and found a folding knife. She left it closed. Her nails were damaged enough. On the coffee table was another revolver.
A gun in each hand, Selina Kyle explored the house further. There were no women's clothes, only the belongings of the two men.
But there was a bathroom. It was a risk, but there were towels and there was even shampoo.
Selina looked down at the stainless steel pistol and shrugged. She set the gun on the edge of the bathtub and turned on the water. When the temperature was right, she stripped off the shirt and stepped inside, leaving the other gun on the sink. She turned up the water.
She had seen something in her eyes in the bathroom mirror, something she was happy to see. Despite the dirt, the unkempt hair, the smell of her flesh, there was a spark of strength and humanity.
They hadn't taken that from her. As she soaped her body, she watched the shiny, wet revolver. It reassured her, but not more than her will reassured her.
***
About four thousand, two hundred people lived in Cape Canaveral -- not counting the tens of thousands who worked at the space center. The cream of American computer, rocket, engineering and less widely known disciplines resided and worked there, freely exchanging ideas on science and technology. The winners of prestigious scientific prizes also called Cape Canaveral home.
False-Face stood before fifty of the finest minds now, summoned here for him in the little scientific community.
Before him on a laboratory table was the nerve gas canister with a bomb attached to it. He began to speak. "This weapon was smuggled into the United States with the express intention of destroying a vital segment of American society, the intention of crippling the United States irreparably." The truth almost always sounded convincing. But his next remarks diverged from it. "It is a Russian secret weapon, sent to destroy us, I alone have been charged to bring this weapon here, to you -- the finest minds available on the East Coast -- for the task. You, Pappas," he said as he looked at a lean-faced, almost sorrowful-looking bearded man wearing a white lab coat, "You were once principal-weapons designer for the United States."
"My research has taken me elsewhere, away from destruction," said the scientist.
"But your skills are still the best," False-Face went on forcefully. "You will hand pick a team to assist you in dismantling the weapon before it can be detonated. We believe this canister to contain VX nerve gas."
There was a sudden sound of gasps and drawn breaths from the scientists.
False-Face continued, "I have ordered the space center and the town of Cape Canaveral sealed and closed. No is to be admitted without my express permission. Nor is anyone to be allowed to leave. Some members of the CIA themselves suspect complicity with the communists." He held a folded section of a lined paper from a pocket notebook high in the air for all to see. "On this slip of paper is the telephone number of operation headquarters. Once you have defused the Russian weapon of mass destruction, you are to call this number, Pappas. Not before. The switchboard has been ordered closed here until you make this call. No incoming or outgoing calls will be allowed. Communist elements are everywhere, I fear."
"But surely we must know something about the nature of this device before we can begin." It was a woman who spoke, and False-Face guessed she belonged to Pappas.
"Madame," he replied, and again he elected the truth, "we believe it is comprised of VX nerve gas. Surely, I don't have to tell you distinguished scientists what that means. I am certain the designer of this instrument arranged detonation to be impossible to avoid. The blast by the bomb will cause the nerve gas to billow into a poisonous cloud that could spread for many miles. The bomb will probably trigger if the slightest mistake is made. Yours is an impossible task -- but it must be accomplished."
"Why was this weapon, this horrible thing, not brought to a bomb-dosposal area, or detonated in some safe location?" asked a dignified-looking white- haired man. He smoked a pipe, and the tobacco smelled very good.
"There are, doctor, ninety-eight other devices similar to this one," False- Face replied. "Circumstances may arise in which more of these will be set against the United States. For that purpose, this device must be defused rather than detonated."
The woman spoke again. "There are ninety-eight more of these -- each with VX nerve gas?" She sounded incredulous.
"Many of these are already in Europe," False-Face went on, "waiting to be set against important cities and installations. It is imperative that you do what you must do." He glanced at his watch and continued, his voice marked with urgency. "There is one further reason why it was brought here and you were not transported to some safer site. Time is critical. In thirty-two minutes and ten seconds, if you cannot disarm it, it will detonate of its own accord." There were cries and gasps. One woman screamed. He saw tears in the eyes of the bearded man, Pappas.
I salute you," he said, "and now I must take my leave." He handed the piece of paper with the phone number written across it to Pappas, turned and walked briskly from the room.
He listened to his own heels clicking on the laboratory floor. He was immensely pleased with himself. But as the laboratory doors -- steel, triple thickness armor-plated steel -- slammed closed with a pneumatic hiss in his wake, he could feel that the JSA was closing in, and perhaps Batman himself as well. He smiled -- it was time to change identities.
***
"I am sorry, gentlemen," the base commander said. "But the orders of Major Garrity take precedence. I witnessed these myself. It is not a breach of security to admit that they were signed by the commander-in-chief of NORAD."
"Those were forged orders, colonel," Batman said politely.
"I have only the word of two men wearing masks and capes, and please believe I mean no disrespect," the colonel smiled.
The Caped Crusader shrugged his shoulders. "I regret having to show you these additional orders, then, colonel." Batman grabbed the Air Force officer's left wrist, pulled, turned the man around quickly as he put one arm around his neck and placed the man's right arm behind his back in a hammer lock.
All that could be heard was the sharp intake of the colonel's breath as he was taken completely by surprise by the sudden quickness of the move.
The Sandman's gas gun appeared in his right fist and he was already aiming it toward the knot of junior officers standing some paces away.
"You freaks -- you're overstepping your authority," challenged the base commander.
"We're on the same side," Batman said severely. "Our authority supercedes yours, colonel. Do you like this part of Florida? There are other spots not so pleasant or as nice as Cape Canaveral -- like Alaska, for example. This man you aided is a Nazi named False-Face. He carries with him a bomb laced with VX nerve gas. He is a mass murderer. He is here to detonate this device and destroy the entire city and America's space program, killing thousands. You must tell us now what we need to know or do you wish to die soon?"
When the Air Force colonel gave no response, The Sandman shrugged. He walked in front of the colonel. He began to speak. He was tired and angry. While Batman watched, Sandman rammed the muzzle of the gas gun against the base commander's crotch. The colonel did not now that the weapon was just a gas gun, he thought it was a gun armed with bullets. Sandman used this psychological advantage. He looked the colonel in the eye through his menacing-looking gas mask. "Tell Batman what he needs to know in ten seconds or I blow your testicles off one at a time. One ... two ... three ... four ..."
***
Sound psychological principles and reason had prevailed, Batman realized. They walked hurriedly now across the airfield to the hangar in which False- Face's F-4 was stored. As they entered the hangar, The Sandman took from his coat a device about the size of a flashlight and began waving it around.
They stopped before the silver-gray F-4. Batman continued to watch the group of officers and men gathering behind them. He flickered his eyes from the men he was watching to The Sandman -- he was sweeping the flashlight- looking device over the open cargo hatch of the F-4.
The masked crimefighter turned around after a small red lightbulb began flashing on his device. "This is a poison gas detection device," Sandman announced. "There is evidence of residual poison gas in the cargo area. You, the officer there," he said, pointing to a man who looked little more than twelve years old, even his hat seemed to big for him. Batman reflected that every branch of the armed forces sent its quartermasters to the same tailoring school -- if it's not so big that it falls off, it fits. "Come here, now!" The Sandman ordered.
The young officer walked forward and stopped less than a yard from Sandman. "Now, lieutenant. Take this device in your hand and sweep the instrument along the open cargo. Announce what your results are."
The young man nodded and held the device in his right hand. He swept it over the open cargo hatch, inside the fuselage, then stopped. He returned the device to The Sandman. Batman watched the man's Adam's apple bob nervously, the shoulders drawn back. "The masked man is correct, there is an indication of poison gas. We have apparently transferred poison gas."
The base commander suddenly decided to ignore any danger the two masked crimefighters may had presented and started forward. Batman did nothing to stop him. The colonel stopped midway between Gotham's avenger and The Sandman and the young lieutenant. "I was wrong," the commander said simply. He turned and saluted Batman and Sandman. "We are at your disposal -- my men, all of us, to stop this madman. If you are somehow deceiving me, I shall kill you with my bare hands. But I cannot afford the risk to the people of this area. What do you want us to do?"
The Sandman nodded toward Batman. "We have fought against False-Face before. We need to retrieve that device False-Face brought here."
"If he's masquerading as an Air Force officer and his orders look that good," said Batman, "he'll probably have turned what police or security are available at the space center wherever against us. It may mean fighting your own people," he added. "No one wants to hurt their own, but we may have to in order to stop False-Face."
***
Batman ceased bothering to count the number of telephone calls that followed. At last, word came through that Cape Canaveral had been closed to motorized traffic going in or out, and the space center was sealed and ringed by security personnel and police from the area.
The base commander set down the telephone. "The most brilliant minds of NASA are there," he explained to Batman. "Everybody knows everybody. Even my wife works in the complex as a research assistant. She was working late tonight." The man's face dripped sweat, but not from the heat of Florida weather, the Caped Crusader realized. "And our van which this False-Face requisitioned, was seen to enter the space center."
Batman closed his eyes. He suddenly realized what False-Face was doing. "He spoke of a dangerous device or something that was being brought here, that it was some horrifying communist plot." The Dark Knight thought aloud. "Let's say he keeps to that idea. He brought the weapon to the science complex. Just to plant it? Why go through more security than he needed?" Batman walked toward the wall map of the area behind the colonel's desk. "There's a reservoir right at the edge of the space center. He could have planted the device, come back here and taken off. Or used some other means of quick exit. This is a setup, I'm sure of it. Are any persons here who were involved or are involved in the nation's weapons of mass destruction program?"
The colonel's eyes flickered, but he did not immediately answer. Batman urgently tried to extricate an answer. "Well?"
Doctor Milt Pappas," the colonel replied.
"Isn't he the one who quit the American weapons designing program? I remember there was a major controversy about it," the Masked Manhunter said.
"He is a man of peace," the base commander shrugged.
"Then I know what he's doing," Batman decided. "He had The Boomer set the device to be tripped off. He's using Pappas and some of the others as his detonator. He probably told them he had this horrible communist weapon and for some reason or another they were the only ones who could disarm it, and that's why he sealed the space center. As they start to dismantle it, they'll detonate it. He likely gave them some sort of time limit to increase the probabilities of them not finding the tripping devices."
"I have helicopters."
Batman looked at the base commander. "You come with us -- we'll need all the influence we can muster if we want to avoid a shooting war with the people guarding the complex."
"There's a helipad on the roof," the commander said.
The Sandman stood up. "Shall we, gentlemen?"
Batman started for the office door.
To be continued ...