Part 22
by DarkMark
There was no time for stealth. The Asgardians took the fastest way into Doom's castle, through the huge wooden drawbridge with its metallic reinforcements and deadly defensive devices. They smashed through it within fifteen seconds and kept going.
Even weaponry geared to repelling the mightiest of super-heroes was hard-pressed to resist the might of five gods of Asgard.
Balder, Hildegarde, Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg sprinted into the halls of Victor Von Doom's palace, their footsteps resounding off the carpet-covered stone floors. They were met by a phalanx of robot guards, blasting away at them with ray-weapons, explosives, even liquid that would freeze any living matter as solid as a glacier. The Warriors Five had at their foes, smashing them with mace and sundering them with sword. Only robotic scrap was left in their wake.
The quintet had been given a blueprint of the interior of Doom's palace from the Fantastic Four's records and thus knew in which general direction to go, though it was known that Doom made alterations to his castle on a moment's notice. All of the defenses, however, could not be foretold. There were too many of them. A few minutes later, Fandral was the first to detect another.
"Gas!" he reported.
Hogun sniffed. "Aye, in Freya's name. Enough to kill a band of mortal soldiers, I trow."
Balder swept his cape before his lower face. "Find the source," he demanded. "Now."
Hildegarde was the closest. "There," she said, pointing with her sword. It was a fake building stone, made of porous material.
Volstagg held his nose. "Odin's blood! The noxious poison fair 'whelms e'en the lion of Asgard in his masculine preeminence, and if Volstagg should fall..."
Balder grasped his partner by the arm. "In truth, Volstagg, you have given inspiration. Come here."
The corpulent Asgardian allowed himself to be led to the phony stone. "And now, good Balder?"
"And now, valiant Volstagg, you sit."
"Sit?"
Balder nodded. "And be quick about it. You shall block further poison from the hall."
"Sit, good Balder?"
"Indeed, sit, friend Volstagg."
Blustering, Volstagg said, "Indeed, 'tis a dishonor most foul. Volstagg the Valorous was meant to clash sword with the vilest of villains...to topple the most monstrous of foes..."
"All true, most noble one," said Balder. "But none of us have the bulk for such a task. In truth, 'twill be said that the most honorable of the company of Asgard this day was Volstagg himself, who sacrificed immediate glory that his comrades might complete the mission they otherwise might have failed."
"In truth?" Volstagg coughed, despite himself.
"May the Odinsword be drawn if I bear falsely," Balder assured him.
"Humph. Well, then..." The huge, red-coated warrior backed against the stone and sat down. Nothing shy of a battering ram could budge him, and the output of gas rapidly ceased.
"You will come for me when it is done?" Volstagg looked up eagerly.
"We would not dream of leaving the hero of the day," Balder said.
Volstagg puffed up his chest, a masterful feat indeed, crossed his arms over it, and put on a fierce expression. "Let the varlets come, then. None shall move Volstagg from his post most dangerous!"
"So be it." The foursome continued at a rapid clip.
Before too many more steps, a sonic burst assaulted the ears of the four immortals. This was quickly accompanied by a projected illusion of horrific design, made all the more frightening by the fact that the images within it were projected too quickly for the mortal (or even immortal) mind to fully grasp, other than subconsciously. The Asgardians were made of stern stuff, but it threatened to unhinge their mentalities.
Hogun gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, ignored the sounds he could, and groped along the floor till he found a wall. This he struck, and struck, and struck with his mace, until it gave way. Part of the illusion fell. "Comrades, this way!" he shouted.
They did not hear.
The grimmest warrior of them all waded back into the maelstrom, grasped Hildegarde and Balder by the hands, led them to the hole he had broken in the wall, and shoved them through. He came back for Fandral and did the same, then followed. Within the next chamber, the sounds were lessened and the illusions were not present.
"Friend Hogun," gasped Fandral, leaning against the wall and propping himself up with his sword against the floor, "...gratitude...aplenty."
"Fie on that," muttered the mustached warrior. "See to our foe, by Odin."
Hildegarde, pushing a braid away from her face, suddenly narrowed her eyes as she looked in one direction. "There!" She pointed with her blade. A troop of Doom's brown-clad lackeys, armed with high-tech hand-weapons, were racing towards them.
"Spare them, if you may," ordered Balder. "Our fight is with master, not with minions."
"They have made it our fight," Hogun retorted, and raced to meet their charge.
Doom's soldiers shouted various things, some in fear, others in determination, and triggered their weapons at the warriors. Hogun ducked under their blasts, rolling until he was near enough, and then sprang upon them with a power they had never known. By the time Hildegarde, Fandral, and Balder had joined him, not a few of the foe were unconscious, some had broken limbs, and most of the rest were in full flight. Thankfully, none of the soldiers were dead.
That, for Hogun, was mercy.
"From here, whence?" asked Hildegarde.
Balder paused a moment to remember the blueprint of Doom's castle, oriented himself mentally in their most probable location, and turned to the north. "That way," he said.
It took but a few more battles for the Asgardian quartet to burst through a final wall, breached by mace and swords, and find themselves in the interior sanctum of Victor Von Doom.
The place was lit both by torch and electric light of a nature unknown to any of them, and, they suspected, to most men of Earth as well. The walls were festooned both with complex devices of informational and destructive intent, and by strange sorcerous symbols, the likes of which even Balder the Brave didn't care to look upon more than necessary. The furnishings themselves were Spartan. Doom went in for splendor in his exterior rooms, but within, he was a functionalist.
All of that was taken in peripherally. Their main attention was focused on a green-cloaked, grey-armored figure who sat at a computer console, then spun and pointed a metallic finger at them.
Wordlessly, Hogun the Grim drew back and then threw his mace as hard as he could.
The weapon struck their attacker full in the head and knocked its target cleanly off his shoulders. The finger pointed towards them spurted a deadly ray which all four of them managed to dodge. The body in armor toppled sideways off the chair, even as the head and mace penetrated into the monitor of the computer with an explosion and sparks.
For a long moment, none of the warriors spoke, or even much moved.
Hildegarde broke the silence. "Is he slain?"
Fandral, stepping forward carefully over the debris, said, "If he is not, they are building more durable mortals than when last I walked this world."
Balder shouldered past him. "I think not, Fandral. Observe." He reached into the monitor, brushing aside the broken and powdered glass and metal.
"Touch not my mace!" warned Hogun.
"I needs must, Hogun," replied Balder. He dragged the Doom-head and Hogun's mace out of the monitor housing. Cradling the head in the crook of his arm, he held the mace out to Hogun with his other hand. Hogun took it, roughly.
"Is this, then, the end of the one mortals dreaded above all?" said Hildegarde. "For one who fought Thor to a nigh-standstill, it seems quite...unlikely."
"Unlikely be the word for it, dear Hildegarde," said Balder. "Note yon carcass...as it were."
She looked, Fandral beside her. "Odin's blood," she said. "'Tis true. I did not see it afore."
"Nor I," admitted Fandral. "Neither of us looked well enow."
"What blather the three of you about?" said Hogun. "If Doom is dead, then dead he well may stay."
Balder pitched him the head, underhanded. Hogun caught it. "Hogun, do you see anything amiss in what I have thrown you?"
Hogun looked at the wetness on his hand, which held the head by the neck. "No...blood," he said. "A fluid of lubrication. But no blood."
"Aye," said Fandral. "We have slain not man, but automaton. A robot."
Hildegarde dashed her sword against the computer machinery, destroying a good part of it. "Our foe has lured us thus basely. But how could he have known?"
"Did he know, indeed?" asked Fandral. "No traitor exists among Avengers, Asgardians, or Fantastic Four. Can he monitor us from afar?"
"Perchance," ventured Balder. "Though 'tis possible he was not fleeing us, but..."
"But going forthwith to strike elsewhere, in secret," pronounced Hogun. "Aye, that's the way of it."
Fandral said, "Then we must return to the Quinjet, and notify our brethren in arms before our return. If Doom travels, he has one destination in mind."
A new noise of something moving through the outside hall drew their attention. The foursome quickly, and as silently as they could, made their way to the hole they had broken in through and positioned themselves around it, so as not to be seen from the outside. A great foot came in through the hole and both Fandral and Hildegarde swung their swords at what would be throat-height.
They stopped just a few hairs' breadth away from the throat of Volstagg.
He was carrying four of Doom's unconscious guards, two under each arm. Except for quivering, his huge bulk didn't move. His eyes were wide and registered shock, which was understandable. Both Fandral and Hildegarde withdrew their swords. With a sigh of relief, Volstagg dropped all four of his burdens.
"Friend Volstagg, nigh came thou to losing weight without which you would be lost indeed," remarked Fandral.
"By the Rainbow Bridge itself, are you not perceptive enough to tell the Lion of Asgard from a common foe?" spluttered Volstagg. "Or e'en an uncommon one?"
"Your duty was to guard the gas-grate," snapped Hogun. "Why are you here?"
"Forsooth, the thing exploded behind me," said Volstagg. "'Twill leave much for the seamstress to be done, I fear. The blast did draw many of the foemen towards me, which, of course, was a far greater danger than the gas explosion. Within seconds, the lot of them had tasted the might of Asgard's greatest warrior."
"Most likely, you fell upon them," said Hogun.
"Peace, Hogun," said Balder. "I accept your action and explanation as that of a warrior most worthy, Volstagg."
The huge Asgardian beamed. "Praise could only come more highly from Odin, or Thor, friend Balder. But stay! What vile form bleeds blackly upon the floor? You have already triumphed?"
"In a way, my friend," said Balder, clapping him on the shoulder. "We have more work to do."
"And villains to vanquish?"
"Most assuredly, friend Volstagg. Most assuredly."
-M-
"The Fire?" said Iron Man.
Madame Masque nodded.
"I don't know everything, but I've been party to more than you would be, since I still have a few friends in the Maggia," she said. "Also, my status is kind of iffy as a heroine, so somebody tried to contact me as well, to see if I was buyable."
"Tell me everything, Whitney," said Iron Man. "Everything you know. Then we have to tell the rest."
"You can tell them. I'm not comfortable with all those hero-types."
He grasped her wrist, gently but firmly, with his iron glove. "This is too big. You have to let us know. I'll vouch for you, and you won't face any reprisal."
"Let go of me, or you're getting nothing." She stared him down.
Reluctantly, Iron Man released her wrist. "All right, Whitney. Now, talk to me. Please."
"Better," she said. "All right. From what I can tell, this whole operation with the villains, it's a coordinated effort. The code word for the whole op seems to be 'Fire'. I don't know a lot more, but it's tied to the radical stuff in some way."
"Tell me something I don't know," he said.
"How can I? I don't know what you know already."
"Go ahead. I'll prompt you when I need more detail."
"All right." The gold-masked woman grasped her knees to give her hands something to do. "Don't ask me how I was found, but some guy got the number of the place where I was staying. He addressed me as Madame Masque. Probably doesn't know who I was..."
"Who you are."
"Thank you. I was out to find out as much as I could about this guy so I could go discombobulate him, but he didn't give a name. Just said that the final offensive against super-heroes was about to begin, and there was a place for me and over one hundred thousand dollars if I cooperated."
Iron Man considered. "Multiply that by the number of villains involved in this thing, and someone's got a mighty large petty cash drawer."
"If they all get paid," Masque pointed out. "I asked where I could meet him, just to track him down. He gave me a password, 'Fire', and said he'd get back to me. But he never did."
"Smart guy."
"Possibly. Like I said, I still have a few ears in the Organization. They told me that Whiplash, who used to be a friend of ours, ditched and hitched with the new operation. A while back, that would have meant a contract on his head. Now, they just wait to see if he'll have a head after this is finished."
"Whitney." Iron Man spread his hands. "Tell me how this connects to Simon Gilbert."
"Never heard of him," she said.
"He's an industrialist," said Iron Man, tensely. "One of Tony Stark's rivals. Murdered. Yesterday. They found the body of a known radical right beside him, a man named Graine. Do you have anything on either of them?"
"No," she said. "I'm sorry."
Automatically, Iron Man rubbed the back of his neck, even though he knew he couldn't feel it through his armor. "It's all right, Whitney. You've helped. We've just..." He sighed. "We have all of the puzzle pieces here, and no tray. But at least you've given me another..."
"Don't say it." He knew, behind her mask, she was smiling.
"Well, not in that sense," he said, smiling behind his own mask. "But, Whitney, I wonder."
"About what?"
He shifted position on the sofa. "I wonder if I'm not connected in this matter a lot more than I know about. Simon Gilbert was an employee of Stark Industries before he went into business with his son. What was the kid's name? Gary. Radicals have been enemies of Stark ever since the first protest signs went up in the Sixties. There's a connection to Stark, and thus to me. And, God help me, I still don't know what it is."
"Maybe," the woman said, crossing her legs elegantly, "whoever's responsible is killing industrialists. In that case, Tony Stark might be high on the list. They may also have killed Gilbert's son."
"Could be," he acknowledged. "But I doubt it. Graine was killed alongside Simon Gilbert. Gary was missing, and so was his car. Supposing Gary walked in on the murder of his father, shot Graine...just supposing...and took off in the car."
"In fear," said Madame Masque, "for what he'd done."
"Yes," said Iron Man. "Or maybe not in fear."
"So...you think this Gary Gilbert could be the key to what's happening?"
"I think he's the best lead, maybe the only lead, we've got so far." He clashed his metal hand into his palm, striking sparks. "Damn! America may die, Whitney, and all because I'm too dumb to see the connections."
Masque sighed. "Should I let you get back to the Avengers?"
"You're coming with me."
"I won't."
"You have to!"
She stood and gave him a look of anger. "Iron Man, do not presume to tell me what I can or cannot do. I walk my own path, and if it crosses yours, it'll be in friendship. But never as a lackey."
He stood up to face her. "Then you leave me no choice."
"What?"
Iron Man grasped both her wrists. "I'm taking you in there and you'll tell them everything you just told me, and whatever else you know. If you don't, I'll turn you over to the authorities and tell you everything I know about you. Including your past as the director of the Maggia."
Masque's eyes blazed behind the mask of gold and steel. "And would you have me tell the cops just what I know about you...Tony Stark?"
He hoped he hadn't given himself away with a move. "Pull the other leg," he said. "I won't activate my jets."
"Don't play games with me," she said. "I spent enough time with you in Midas's lair. I know your moves, your stance, your way of speaking. When you pretended to be a man impersonating Tony Stark, I realized you were the real article. Even though you've disguised your voice with a mechanical distorter, oh, yes, Tony, I know it's you. If you let the sword fall over my head, I'll cut the thread holding the one over yours. Well, Tony?"
After a moment of silence, Iron Man shifted his grip to one of her upper arms and shoved her towards the meeting hall. "Ouch!" she complained.
"You're coming with me," he said, "and you're going to give them a recital, and I don't care what else you tell them."
She hissed. "I could very easily get to hate you," she said.
"Quit trying to get on my good side," said Iron Man.
A few steps later, he stopped, bringing her up abruptly. "What now?", asked Madame Masque.
"My God," he said. "Oh, my God..."
She turned to look at him, curiously.
"Fire," he said. "Radicalism. I think...I think I'm beginning to see it."
"See what?"
He snapped his helmeted head back her way. "Whitney. Go to the Avengers and the FF. Tell them what you know, what I've said. I have to go. I'll be in contact with them by radio."
"Tony..."
"Don't call me that. I have to go!"
He sprinted off down the hallway, his iron boots clanging roughly on the marble. Madame Masque looked after him, until he turned a corner. A few seconds later, she heard a door open and slam shut. Shortly after that, she presumed he was in the air.
Someone was by her side. The Avengers' butler. "Ah, miss? Is there something I can do?"
"Yes," she said. "I suppose there is. Take me to the Avengers."
-M-
The hardest part of it for Gary Gilbert was the waiting.
Someone had to have picked up on his trail by now. There would be no way he wouldn't be suspect, with his father's and Graine's corpses in his home. Also, someone might pick up on the absence of Miranda Slade. Not as likely, but still a possibility. He had ditched his car elsewhere, left no clues–-he hoped!—to where he was going. It was just too traceable.
And now there was blood directly on his own hands. Even within metal gloves. Blood that could not, could never be washed away.
His own father's blood.
And those of two friends, two allies.
Not one enemy had died by his hands. He was a patricide now, a betrayer of his own men (one of whom was a woman...madly, he couldn't prevent his mind from trying to turn it into a joke). For that he would damn himself, regardless of what came afterward.
Atheism was looking like a more attractive form of belief to Gary Gilbert now. For, if there was a God, if there really was a Heaven and Hell, there was little doubt in his mind as to which realm would claim him.
That might be poetic justice.
Or might it?
One's own life was a poem, a work of art, had to be. Written by oneself, or circumscribed by someone else who held the pen. There were few men of vision, few men with the ability to control. He had found himself to be one of them. It was a burden, as his clear sight of what had to be done was a burden. Sometimes he wondered if he should pray the Jesus-prayer, that this cup be taken from his hands.
But no.
His was the vision, his was the foresight, his was the strength, his was the ability. From whom much is given, much must be expected. Before him, the Movement and the super-villain cadre were just bunches of amateurs. He was the one who put both of them on a working basis.
Neither of them knew what his true purpose was. But secrets had to be kept, until the final revelation, when it was too late to stop the Purpose.
And how many would die? Hell, beside him, even Harry Truman would look like a saint.
There was still time to back out. Time to let everything be as it would be otherwise. Time, perhaps, to escape to another land, to assume another identity, to live off money he'd stashed away in Swiss bank accounts. Time to turn his back on everything...
...on the Fire.
No.
Once the journey was started, there was nothing left to do but follow it to the end. He'd known it would end like this, had planned it for years. He was a man of destiny, and destiny could not be denied.
A song came to him from a few years back, when he was heavily into rock, when Steppenwolf was one of his favorite bands. A track from one of their lp's that had spoken to him, directly to him. Perhaps it was an inspiration for what he had done. Those lines...
"There's a monster on the loose,
It's got our head into the noose,
And it just sits there...watching..."
Gary Gilbert sighed. Overseas, there would still be the relics of Steppenwolf. None would know how they had inspired him, in part. But that hardly mattered now.
Only one thing remained: the waiting. Waiting for the sign from his least trusted but most fearful operatives.
In his red and gold Firebrand armor, Gary Gilbert sat beside his yellow plane, and waited.
-M-
When the entry disc came up bearing six people, none of which were exactly known for respecting authority, everyone in SHIELD went on alert.
Fury had told his people to keep their weapons pointed downward and to by no means give signs of hostility. Even so, he'd met the Hulk twice, up close and personal, and knew he'd rather have a ticking H-Bomb on board than Mr. Green Genes. But it wasn't like he had a choice, right now.
The disc settled into place on the holders, bearing Spider-Man, a weirdly-garbed guy in a red cape that just had to be Dr. Strange, some woman with white hair curled into two horns at her temples, the Silver Surfer, who not long ago had tried to destroy SHIELD single-handedly, the Sub-Mariner, who'd been at odds with America off-and-on since 1939, and, not to be overlooked, the Hulk himself. He was the one who drew most of Fury's attention. The others were rational. The Hulk was possibly the most destructive single force on Earth, and he'd been taken aboard a flying vessel full of almost 500 people.
He could probably bring the whole thing down inside of five minutes.
The protective-suited men of SHIELD stood round about the disc, at what Fury termed a safe distance. Dum Dum, Gabe, and Val were among them. One section of the circle of agents was open. Fury approached the sextet in that direction, casually but cautiously.
"Thanks for comin' by," he said. "The name's Fury. Col. Nick Fury. While you're here, you'll be treated as guests. Whatever hostilities there was beforehand, they're forgotten on my part, now."
"Speak for yourself, landman," muttered Sub-Mariner.
The Silver Surfer held his board and his peace. The Hulk looked wary, sniffing the air, looking at the men assembled round about. Spider-Man said, "Colonel, these are the Defenders. This gent here is an old friend of mine, Dr. Strange. Doc...the Colonel."
Formally, Stephen Strange stepped forward, Clea beside him. He extended his orange-gloved hand. "Well met, Colonel. You think we may be of assistance in this matter?"
"I sure as hell hope so," confessed Nick. "You got everything under control on your end?"
"As much as we can," admitted Strange.
"Don't like the sound of that."
"Neither do I," Strange said. "But if things go awry, you can count on myself, the Surfer, and Namor to handle matters."
Fury sighed. "Guess that'll have to do. Come with me."
Fury led the way towards a hall. The Defenders and Spider-Man followed. The men of SHIELD let them go, but began to follow up on them. The Hulk turned, and aimed a savage glare at them. "Soldiers go away."
"Colonel Fury..." said one agent, making sure his weapon was off safety.
"Soldiers GO AWAY! Or Hulk will SMASH!"
Instantly, Dr. Strange knew the problem. The U. S. Air Force had been chasing the Hulk for years at the behest of Gen. "Thunderbolt" Ross, and the Hulk had an instinctive reaction to anyone in a military-style uniform, thinking them (not incorrectly) to be a threat. The SHIELD suits were close enough to soldiers' uniforms, and their plasma rifles and other weapons branded them as enemies in the Hulk's mind. "Hulk," he warned. "These are our friends."
"No soldier is the Hulk's friend."
Clea, bravely, went to the Hulk and grasped what she could of his massive right arm. "Green one, be at peace. Today we fight in a common cause. Even the soldiers are on our side."
Nick Fury rushed to the rear. "Men, fall back. Make yourself scarce. That's an order."
"But, sir," said one hesitant Female Fury.
Fury took out a cigar and stuck it cold in his mouth. "Which one'd you rather argue with, Huff? The Hulk, or me?"
"Uh...neither, sir," she said.
"Go."
The men and women of SHIELD filed out, with Val giving Nick a meaningful look as she left. Nick forced himself to look the Hulk in the eye. "Okay now, big fella?"
The Hulk said nothing. But at least he wasn't tearing anything up.
"All right," Fury said. "Come with me. We ain't got much time."
Without much conversation, the six superbeings followed Nick Fury to the hallway and through it, passing by a number of doors, all of which were closed and locked. Spider-Man figured that three of their company could smash through those doors without problem, and he might even be able to essay it. But everybody was behaving, for now. That was a relief.
Finally, Fury came to a door at which he had to give his handprint, a retinal identification, and a voice verification. It opened for him, and, with a glance at those behind him, he led them inside.
The room was SHIELD's monitoring complex, filled to the gills with large-sized video screens carrying scans of different parts of the world, news broadcasts from every major network in the world, radio communications, satellite feeds, computer data readouts, and everything else imaginable. There was also a feed to the ESP division, which none of them but Fury knew about. The first techno who saw the Hulk and company gaped like he'd seen Beelzebub. It didn't take long for the mood to spread.
Nick Fury stood stalwart. "The green guy and his friends are with me. I want you all to stay calm. No provocation. We're in control. Understood?"
No answer.
"Good. Get back to your jobs. I'll keep 'em entertained." He lit his stogie with an aluminum lighter left over from the War, snapped it shut, and proceeded down the walkway to a point beneath a certain viewscreen, where he halted.
"First stop on our tour," he said. "See that?"
None of the Defenders or Spider-Man had to answer.
There on the screen before them was a live broadcast by helicopter from Harlem. The district was up in flames, rivaling Watts in '65. All that could be seen was burning buildings and smoke. No humans were in the picture, and for that, all were grateful.
Fury clicked a remote control on his wristband. The scene shifted. In Seattle, CBS was covering the takeover of the Space Needle by militants armed with weaponry that had already cut down several policemen. At that news, Nick Fury stiffened, and Spider-Man could guess why.
The director of SHIELD clicked the control time after time. More scenes of devastation, destruction, and unrest, everywhere he chose, in Miami, Austin, Chicago, Los Angeles, Newark, and elsewhere. The most upsetting scene was in Washington, D. C., where protesters had spray-painted obscenities on the Lincoln Memorial and were massed not far from the White House. The police, the National Guard, and other agencies were hard-pressed to keep them back. Some casualties had been reported on both sides.
It was making Kent State look like a cakewalk.
"Why?" asked the Silver Surfer, in hushed tones. "For what purpose do they do these things?"
Spider-Man answered. "Maybe even they couldn't tell you, Surfer. A lot of it's the war...nobody wants to go, lots of people think we should never have been there...a lot of it is a bunch of people who want to overthrow the government. Some of it's just wanting to be part of whatever's coming down."
"Even if it destroys?"
"Sometimes...especially then."
Namor lay a hand on the Surfer's shoulder. "Be at peace, silvery one. Even Namor cannot fathom all the motives of surface men, though Atlantis has known war time and again itself."
The Hulk rumbled. "Bad pictures. Make pictures go away!"
"Please, Hulk," Clea pleaded, standing before him. "We all need you in this matter. Stephen...your 'Magician' needs you. And I need you. Will it help if I...if I hold your hand?"
The green-skinned giant looked at her, quizzically. Everyone in the room, Defenders included, went on red alert.
Then the Hulk, almost gently, extended his hand. Clea placed her small, white left hand within it. "Clea," Dr. Strange warned.
The Hulk's huge green hand closed about Clea's, and held it tenderly enough that, if it had been an egg, the shell would not have broken. The sorceress smiled. "It will be all right, Stephen. I knew the Hulk would not hurt me."
Strange sighed. "Your faith is more than a match for mine. Be careful with her, Hulk."
"Hulk will not hurt Magic Woman," asserted the colossus in torn purple pants.
Nick Fury said, "They found out they can get attention through the violence. A lot of things they wanted, hell, they were legitimate...some weren't. But we wasn't movin' fast enough for 'em. And if you think the only thing standin' between you and the Promised Land is the way things are today, you might get to thinkin' about tearin' down what's between you and it, too."
"And do you think so, Colonel Fury?" said Dr. Strange, quietly.
"You know better 'n that," scoffed Fury. "The world oughtta known better than that. We've been through it before. Russia in '17, China in '49, Cuba in '59. Everybody knows what they wanted. And everybody shoulda known what they got. It's just that some probably didn't wanna believe it."
"Or maybe," said Spider-Man, "they were thinking of America, in 1776."
Fury turned on him. But Spider-Man stood his ground. After a moment, Dr. Strange said, "So what do you intend to do, Colonel?"
The old soldier took his time about answering. "I want ya to help me. If we grab the guy behind this whole mess, we may figure out how to unravel it. If America falls, you gotta bet the whole world ain't gonna be far behind it. And as long as I live, America ain't gonna fall. I swear it. I need your help."
"You've already got mine," said Spider-Man. "You know that."
"And I will stand with Stephen," said Clea, simply.
"You may count on the powers of Dr. Strange, as well," answered the magician. "But the Defenders are individuals. They must answer separately."
"What kinda group you got here, anyway?" asked Fury, almost angrily.
"Not a group," said Sub-Mariner. "More of a loose alliance. But this destruction is wanton and purposeless. When I fought America, it was with a definite purpose in mind, and I learned early on not to endanger human lives. Also, I suspect the hand behind this chaos is the one who orchestrated the attack on Atlantis. I throw my lot in with you."
The Surfer was the next to speak. "Humanity makes me sick. Its wars, its petty tyrannies, its striving for temporal power, when it should strive for harmony, peace, and advancement...I wish to vomit over this entire globe. But one thing makes me sicker than humanity. That is the death of innocents. In this, I stand with the Defenders."
Fury took the lead. "That just leaves you, big guy," he said, addressing the Hulk. "Your friends are all on my side. You don't like the pictures? I don't, either. But the only way to make 'em go away is stand with us...and do something to make 'em stop. We can't do it without you. So what's your choice?"
The Hulk stood, unmoving, looking back at Fury. Within his grasp, Clea tried to move her hand softly, to reassure him.
"The Hulk will help," he said.
Nick Fury had followed the creed of never letting them see you sweat long before anybody made it an advertising slogan. It got him through World War II, Korea, years of undercover work for the CIA, and wars against HYDRA, AIM, and several lesser entities. But this time, he had to work hardest to repress his sigh of relief.
"Good," said Nick. "That's good. Now listen up, all of ya. We got a key to this operation. The key is named Gary Gilbert. He's the son of that munitions magnate that just got shot in his house. Spider-Man found out all about it, or what there was to find. If we find him...we may find out how to win this one. For America."
"Say on," said Namor.
"The ESP guys ain't been able to track him yet," admitted Fury. "But seein' you all here together gives me ideas. I hooked the kid into their network not long ago, and it got results. I'm thinkin' with the Doctor there, and the Surfer boostin' their power, we might get a line on Gilbert toot-sweet. Then you go after him, with our help, and we find out what we wanna know."
"You have an ESP division?" murmured Strange. "Then the rumors of the government's involvement in that are true."
"Depends on what rumors you wanna believe," said Fury. "What of it, Surfer? You on board?"
-M-
In a phone booth outside a Walgreen's in the Bronx, a longhaired man whose hands were still shaking managed to dial a number he had been given. Someone picked up on the other end. A voice he had never heard before said, hollowly, "Password."
"Fire," said the man. "Uh...Fire."
"Yes?"
"I was told to report on, you know, super activity. I got somethin' to say."
"Yes?"
"In the Village. The protest scene. We saw a bunch of 'em. The Hulk. The Hulk was there."
"The Hulk?"
"Yeah. And Spider-Man. Some other guys. And the Silver Surfer."
A pause. "The Silver Surfer?"
"Yeah. I never seen him before. But I know it's him. I could tell."
"You are certain of this?"
"Yeah. And get this. I ain't hardly ever seen it before, but the SHIELD Heli-Carrier came over. It let down some kinda Frisbee, about as wide as the street. And all of 'em got on it, and it flew back up to the Carrier. I wouldn't lie to ya, man. It really happened."
"The Surfer was on that disk?"
"Yeah."
"And he is now in the Carrier?"
"I think so, yeah."
The phone on the other end clicked off.
The longhaired man stood in the booth, holding the receiver to his ear for a few moments. Then he slammed it back on the hook, and didn't bother picking up the change that jingled into the coin return.
He got into his Dodge, started it up, and pointed it down a road going due north. He had never been to Canada, never even considered going there to dodge the draft. But if they'd let him in now, he'd salute the maple leaf, sit down beside polar bears, and be glad of it.
They busted him on the border for two ounces of pot he had in the lining of his suitcase, which he had forgotten about completely. He spent the next night, and several more nights, locked in jail.
That was okay by him. It was better than what was happening outside. For sure.
-M-
Gary Gilbert, using a portable phone of his own design, broke the connection with his informant and dialed another number. Even Ma Bell didn't know about this one. Hell, even the Yippies, those masters of phone phreakery, didn't know it.
The voice of the Puppet Master answered. "Fire," he said, without being prompted.
"This is Gilbert," said Firebrand. "Activate."
"Now?"
"At once."
The Puppet Master hung up without saying goodbye. For that, Gilbert wanted to brutalize him. But that was all right. He'd play his part, then he'd die like the rest of them.
It was all a matter of keeping things going according to plan. Just making sure that, once you touched the lead domino, all the others were lined up and ready to fall.
And they always fell in a very short matter of time.
-M-
The Puppet Master turned from the phone to face the Mad Thinker. He clasped his hands to stop them from shaking. "What would you calculate our chances are of making this work?" he asked.
"Don't be ridiculous," said the Thinker.
It was the first time the puppeteer had seen his partner unwilling to make an estimate of success or defeat down to the twenty-first decimal. But it didn't matter. He went to a safe, spun the dial, heard the tumblers fall, and unlocked it. A small, lead-lined cloth hung over an even smaller object within.
Donning a pair of radiation-proof gloves, the Puppet Master whipped the cover away from the figure, grasped the clay likeness, and pressed it to his head.
He began to transmit his thoughts to the one whose image it bore.
He knew they would be obeyed.
-M-
"Surfer? You on board?"
The silvery alien looked as though he was about to answer. Then, for a moment, he froze, his mouth half-open, his blank eyes giving no clue to his emotions.
Strange and Clea sensed some unknown presence. With his amulet, the sorcerer supreme began to scan his partner's mind.
At once, Spider-Man's spider-sense began to go off with a twelve-alarm fury. He crouched, in combat mode, and shouted, "Guys! Colonel! Something's about to blow!"
That was the last thing anybody remembered hearing before the Surfer whipped up his arms and blew a hole straight through the side of the Heli-Carrier with his Power Cosmic.
Clea cried out in horror. The Hulk let go of her hand and shouted in surprise and rage. Nick Fury went flying over the floor, bowled over by the Surfer's passage. Namor, half-aware of what he was doing, tried to follow, but the Surfer's passage was much too fast for him.
A tremendous suction of air began to pull everyone and everything not tied down, and much of what was, out the hole the Surfer had made in the vessel.
Worse than that, the floor began to tilt at a dangerous angle.
Nick Fury, his legs wrapped around a support pole, stabbed his finger at a wristband communicator. He yelled into it before anyone on the other end could speak. "Hit the triad beams! We're capsizin'!"
Spider-Man, despite the suction power of his feet, was swept away towards the hole in the wall.
The Heli-Carrier began to fall from the sky.
-M-
In Avengers Mansion, Hawkeye was questioning Jarvis. "So where the heck did Shellhead go?"
The butler spread his arms, helplessly. "I don't know, Master Hawkeye. He didn't tell me. I doubt that he told anyone."
Both of them were in an outer hall, alone. The other heroes were still conferring with Madame Masque about her revelations. But Ant-Man and the Wasp suddenly burst onto the scene. "Clint," rapped Hank Pym. "We've got trouble."
The archer jerked his head in Ant-Man's direction. "Like what, Hank?"
"We've just gotten reports. The Masters of Evil have regrouped and struck in Atlanta. The Frightful Four unit is in Seattle. The FF are leaving. We've got to go. Now."
"Anybody found Iron Man yet? Or Cap?"
"We're leaving without them."
For an instant, Hawkeye hesitated. Then he clapped Jarvis on the shoulder. "We'll be back, Jarv. Keep the leftovers ready."
"Always, Master Hawkeye," said Jarvis, to their retreating backs. "Always."
-M-
Gwen Stacy always checked the spyhole before she opened the door for anybody who rang it. Including Peter.
This time she saw Norman Osborn outside. Her jaw dropped for a second, then she unlocked the door, unlatched the chain, and let him in. "Mr. Osborn," she said. "Where have you been? Harry's been worried sick about you."
The man looked appropriately grieved. "I know, Mrs. Parker," he said. "I know. That's just what I have to talk about. May I come in?"
"Of course," said Gwen. She saw no reason to be suspicious of him. After all, he was the father of one of their best friends. She had met him on numerous occasions, and even admired him. As he stepped inside, she heard May wailing in the next room for her afternoon feeding. "Can you excuse me for a moment? May wants her bottle."
"Oh, I'll see to that," said Osborn, and put his hand about her mouth from behind.
Gwen's eyes widened as a cloth dipped in something more potent than chloroform went over her mouth and nose. She struggled, but Osborn seemed almost as strong as her husband. After three seconds, her legs decided to fold under her and Osborn let her fall to the floor.
Everything was darkening, but she could hear May wailing, and hear Osborn talking.
"I'll take care of your child. I'll see someone looks after her. Then you and I will go somewhere, Mrs. Parker. We're going to play a game with your husband, Peter. We're going to play bridge."
The last thing she saw, before the darkness, was his eyes looking down upon her.
They were lit with a goblin's fire.
To be continued...