Part 23
By DarkMark
Iron Man thought he knew where to go. It was a big gamble, but there was too much involved now not to take it. So, using his repulsors for a pair of dice, he cut into the mountainside, watched rock and soil spatter away as gravel and brown mist, and was gratified to see a steel door revealed behind it. Flying, he shut off his repulsors, balled his mailed fists, and poured all the power he had into his boot jets.
He hit the door like the most powerful battering ram known to mankind.
Luckily, it gave way with a screech and sparks and rending of metal. He penetrated the barrier and saw, beyond him, a slew of men in yellow uniforms with hatbox-style helmets. They had weapons almost outside the ken of human science. He had his armor, and surprise.
Within five minutes, he'd mopped up the lot of them.
He grabbed the one nearest to hand once it was done, burying his fist in the man's yellow jersey, and jerked him up from the floor. "Where's Modok?"
The AIM agent, his eyes hidden behind the mesh of his viewplate, shook his head.
"Where is Modok?" Iron Man repeated, louder, and heated the glove of his hand that wasn't holding the man's shirt. It was easy enough to smell the burning scent it gave the air. Nobody wanted such a thing clamped across their face, even a masked one.
"Below," rasped the agent. "Five levels. There's—"
The Avenger didn't wait to hear what there was waiting for him. He threw the man down, grabbed some collapsible metal drills from his belt, affixed them to his hands, adjusted them, and bored through the floor with them.
After fighting his way through four levels, the gold-and-red gladiator crashed through the ceiling of the final chamber. A squad of armed AIM goons and, more significantly, three Dreadnought robots, one of whose kind had almost killed Nick Fury, stood between him and his quarry.
At the other end of the room was a hideous parody of a man, whose head bulked larger than his stunted body. The body was encased in a flying chair-device, which was the only thing he had to mobilize himself; his frail form couldn't move his massive head. The head was encircled with a band of metal encasing some high-tech devices, and there were enough weapons in the chair to lay waste to several city blocks.
Iron Man knew him at a glance.
Modok.
Iron Man stood ready. "Your call," he announced. "I'm just here for information."
"And what," said the huge head in a guttural voice, "do you offer in return?"
"I won't tear up your tin men or beat the hell out of your guards."
Modok laughed. "Even you would be daunted by my Mark III Dreadnoughts. But...amuse me. What do you wish to know?"
"Gary Gilbert," he said. "I want to know your dealings with him. I want to know where he is."
One of the monster's arms lifted, casually, and he pointed towards Iron Man. "Kill him," he ordered.
That, thought Iron Man, was gratifying. At least Modok had confirmed the connection. He hurled himself into battle against the three robots and the heavily-armed men, not discounting the menace of Modok himself.
The trick was to get into close quarters with the enemy. No matter what the AIM men were armed with, they were disadvantaged as soon as he leaped into their midst. Despite the high-tech blasters and gimmicks they carried, they just didn't have the physical power of the guy in the armor. He sent them flying in all directions within seconds.
The Dreadnaughts were another matter.
All three of them seemed to move in concert. They were stronger, swifter than men. One of them grabbed him in hands at least as powerful as his own and held him immobile. Another turned a blast of freezing liquid at one half of his armor, threatening to shatter it into shards. The third poured a burst of fiery fluid at the other half, attempting to roast him alive. Even through his insulation, Tony Stark could feel the extremes of temperature.
But they hadn't reckoned on the Thermo-Coupler within his armor, which kicked in immediately and began channeling the cold and heat extremes into added power for him. It took some straining, and he knew he had to break out soon, before the treatment got too much for even him. The man of iron strained every enhanced muscle he had against the grip of his robot captor.
With a roar of effort, Iron Man broke free, jetted up from the floor, jackknifed near the ceiling, and came down, fists first.
He smashed Dreadnought One to bits.
Then he took the limbs of the shattered robot and used them as clubs against the other two. The battle was violent but swift. Within seconds, Iron Man stood triumphant among the scatterings of three metal bodies.
That still didn't account for Modok.
The master of AIM sent a blue beam from the projector on the band over his forehead towards Iron Man. The mechanical warrior barely managed to dodge. It ripped a hole in the wall behind him and several other walls beyond that. Modok wasn't hesitating about unleashing the next blast, either; a ray of red heat emanated from the same projector and sought out Iron Man like a heat-seeking missle.
Even as it was fired, Iron Man raised his palms and set off his repulsors.
The powerful rays of the Golden Avenger's gloves diffused the heat-blast, scattering it about the room and causing damage wherever it touched. But Iron Man didn't stop there. His repulsors smashed at the projector on Modok's head itself, blowing it apart with a SPAAK! of feedback and electrical power. The hyperheaded villain couldn't avoid an expression of shock and surprise on his huge face.
Iron Man sprang forward, grabbed Modok's head with his arms spread wide, and tore the mutated menace off his chair. He bore his foe against the wall, slamming him into it, letting him slide down so that only his great head was supported by it, and stood with his fist poised before Modok's face.
"Talk," said Iron Man. "And talk fast."
"To hell with you," said Modok. "End my life, and have your questions unanswered."
For reply, Iron Man reached down, grasped one of Modok's small hands, and sent a charge of electricity ripping through his distorted body.
The villain screeched in pain, in an inhuman tone, the body below his head twitching and jerking like a puppet slung up and down by an inexperienced puppeteer. His head swung from side to side, in small arcs, not capable of quick movement. It wasn't enough to kill him, not enough even to knock him out. But it didn't have to be.
Iron Man had little stomach for torture. But he guessed, correctly, that Modok had nearly no tolerance for pain.
He shut off the current, and remained silent. Modok was crying. Iron Man lifted Modok's hand once again.
"Stop," sobbed Modok.
Iron Man remained silent.
"We gave him what he wanted, what he paid for," Modok admitted. "That is what we do. We supply on demand."
"What the hell did you supply him with?" hissed Iron Man.
Modok told him.
Behind his metal mask, Tony Stark's eyes went terribly wide.
-M-
The Heli-Carrier was crashing. Or about to crash. Whatever.
Spider-Man was being sucked towards a hole in its wall by the outrush of air and the slipstream, and he flashed on the climactic scene of GOLDFINGER. That was all that was on his conscious mind. All that he could have told you, anyway. His peripheral vision, through the sides of his opaque eyelenses, picked up the sight of SHIELD agents screaming, trying to hold onto things, and, in two cases, being swept up right beside him.
Where Dr. Strange and his cronies were, at this time, was moot. There was only time to act without thinking.
His hands were pointed at the hole in the Carrier's side. Four of his fingers, the two middle ones on each hand, stabbed down twice at the activators for the web-shooters on his wrists.
From them sprayed a double-dose of net-webbing, covering the puncture in the Heli-Carrier's side. Spider-Man kept the web coming until he had exhausted the fluid in his shooters. An instant later, he slammed into the web, felt it give before his weight, felt two more impacts as the two SHIELD agents hit it after him.
It held.
All three of them were stuck to the web, and would probably remain so for the next hour. But that was preferable to sailing out the hole into the Wild Blue Inevitability.
Or was it? There was still the matter of a couple of thousand tons of Heli-Carrier trying to go downward at the rate of 44 feet per second per second.
Nick Fury's black-clad legs were locked tightly about a support post and he was yelling something into his wristband communicator. The Hulk and Sub-Mariner were literally holding onto a bunch of terrified people and keeping them safe, for the second...the Hulk by digging his toes into the flooring as if it were mud, Namor by using his foot-wings to keep his double-armful of humanity above the floor. Dr. Strange and Clea were keeping themselves grounded by magic, and both were using those crazy two-fingered gestures and some chanting to keep the rest of the assemblage the same way.
About that time there was a hell of a lurch, and all of them, Hulk included, slammed to the floor.
"What?" asked Namor, without having to explain anything.
"Vector beams," Fury snapped. "Three of 'em, in a tripod. What we use to lift the disks. I used it once before, when HYDRA bombed us. But..."
The ship began tilting again. The beams, which emanated from the fore underside of the Carrier and described the three points of a triangle on the ground, had halted the ship's descent for a moment. But they wouldn't cope with the weight of it for long.
The only saving grace was that the ship was over some Jersey swampland. With luck, the only casualties from the crash would be SHIELD agents and employees. Some luck.
Dr. Strange broke off his chanting. "Clea, join your will to mine," he ordered. She didn't quibble. The magician raised both blue-sleeved arms and began an impromptu spell.
"Crimson Bands of Cyttorak, now lend us all your strength,
Encircle ship in which I stand along its very length,
To hold it firm that it be whole and not yet rent asunder,
Appeal this we in sight of all your puissance and wonder!"
None within the ship could see it, but a miracle had occurred.
Seven bands of pulsing red energy had encircled the Heli-Carrier from fore to aft, holding it together, keeping structural stresses and strains from tearing it apart. The pilots of the planes who flew 24-hour guard on the Carrier gaped in amazement, stammered back descriptions to their home base, and wondered what was to come next.
The ship's aft end was teetering, about to come down and drag all the rest with it, bands or no bands.
Everyone within the Carrier began sliding towards the aft end, giving voice to swearing, prayers, cries of pain or terror, or not giving voice at all. But Dr. Strange was not finished yet.
"Hulk! Namor!" he shouted, still keeping his and Clea's feet stuck to the floor by virtue of his spell. "Release those you have in hand. Now!"
"Why?" asked the Hulk. Spider-Man, looking on, still regarded the Hulk as a brutal engine of destruction. But his estimation of the green giant's humanity was being upgraded by the minute.
"Because only you two can save the ship and all that is within it, including myself and Clea," said Strange. "I must send you to the two ends of the Carrier, and you must bear its weight and not let it crash."
"You must do what?" asked Sub-Mariner, incredulously.
Strange shot a glance at him, grimly. "It's the only way, Namor. You two are the only ones with the necessary strength. And, yes, you may not survive it. Are you willing?"
Prince Namor sighed, heavily. "If I die saving surface men, Strange, let my ghost haunt you forever."
The Hulk reluctantly let the people loose whom he had been holding. They scampered away from him, sliding towards the aft end of the room. "What is Hulk to do?" he asked, baffledly.
"I will send you and Namor to separate ends of the ship, outside," explained Strange. "You must hold onto the ship with your hands, and, when it comes down, absorb the impact with your legs, that not many people will be hurt. It is up to you and your strength to save all the people on this Carrier, Hulk. Are you strong enough?"
That did it. The Hulk fixed Strange with a burning gaze, then raised his Sequoia-trunk arms. "Hulk is STRONGEST ONE THERE IS!"
"In the name of Neptune, he had better be," said Namor. "Quickly, Strange, the ship does list."
Dr. Strange pointed his hands in two different directions, at the Hulk and at Sub-Mariner. A brief blast of white light issued from both of them. In a flash, both Defenders were gone.
"Fer the luvva..." began Nick Fury, still holding onto the post with his legs.
"If it helps, Colonel," said Spider-Man, still tangled in his own web, "I don't believe it, either."
The magician looked incredibly tired, and Clea helped support him with a shoulder carry. "Until the deed is done, gentlemen, keep your unbelief to yourselves."
-M-
Outside, when they materialized, the Hulk barely had time to grab the bottom of the Heli-Carrier before he could fall. Once he had his hands imbedded in the metal, not even a tractor beam could drag him down.
The jade Goliath held onto his end of the ship with both hands and felt it creaking towards his end. He looked down its length and saw seven crimson rings encircling it, semi-transparently, and three red beams emanating from the fore end of the Carrier, with Namor, visible only as a flesh-colored dot, holding onto the end beyond it. The wind whipped about the both of them, but it would take more than even the slipstream to tear them away.
Far, far below them, a stretch of Jersey swampland was visible, and there were probably human spectators stopping their cars, pointing upward, and raising a commotion. None of that mattered at the time.
The ship began to roll to the side.
The tripod beams sputtered.
The Heli-Carrier was falling again.
On his end, the Sub-Mariner strained, using all his flight power and strength to wrest the ship into a position in which the Hulk and himself, not the side of the Carrier, would contact the ground first. He prayed aloud, shouting to Father Neptune to strengthen him in his hour of crisis. What the Hulk said, if anything, he neither could hear nor cared about.
The ground was coming up very, very quickly...
The air blast from the displacement of atmosphere below the Carrier hit a few seconds before and threatened even more than the slipstream to blow them both off, but they held their grips. This could not be done. It simply could not be done.
IMPACT.
There was no sound effect written that could describe the Heli-Carrier touching earth.
Windows were cracked for miles around. People, cars, and objects left the ground for a mile-and-a-half radius for an instant, then plunked back down again.
Near Ground Zero, those lucky or unlucky enough to have been near enough to a vacant swamp area picked themselves up, provided they could, and saw a Juggernaut of metal settled into a bog which it was turning to steam.
There were echoes throughout the countryside of the great crash. There were seismographic readings that made scientists gape at their instruments. There was a hue and cry among authorities, as soon as they recovered and realized they were still alive. There was a demand to know just what had happened, and where it had taken place.
It was hard to tell if, within the Carrier, there was silence or din.
When human minds could record such things again, they recalled hearing groans, screaming, electrical sparkings, motors failing, people moving or trying to move, and talking. No one could remember just what was said, but the talking was enough. It proved that people were still alive. If you could hear someone, if you could make yourself be heard, that meant that you were still alive. That was, above all, a good thing.
It was such a good thing that even when two green hands encrusted with dirt punched up through the flooring of the bottom level, followed by a very grimy Hulk, nobody much cared. They just kind of stepped around him, sometimes saying, "Excuse me," as they sought out people who were wounded and tended them, and people who were not and tried to communicate with them. The event was too big even for fear. Nobody could process what just had happened. So they dealt with what was at hand.
The Hulk, somewhat confused, looked around, then sat down on the floor and pulled his legs up in a crouching position. Nobody seemed to be concerned with him, so he saw no need for either aggression nor flight. He hurt, particularly in the arms and legs. The part of his mind that could still reason supposed that, with only a bit more pressure, or without some other factors, even he would have been killed. But he had lived, and so none of that mattered. He would wait until he became hungry or wanted to leave or had to use the bathroom or whatever else happened.
It was kind of comforting that nobody cared he was there.
He was there for only a few moments when a familiar voice resounded through his brain. Hulk. Namor. This is Dr. Strange. Well done. Follow this voice, Hulk, to the place where I stand. Thank you.>
Somehow, the Hulk knew the direction in which the magician wanted him to go. He took the direct route, and jumped up through several floors, ripping big holes in the ceilings above him.
A host of people found presence of mind to scream and flee to other rooms, but that didn't bother him too much. He was used to it.
-M-
Watching from his webbing, Spider-Man could easily see how Nick Fury had been chosen to head SHIELD. Even in these circumstances, the man was taking charge. He had found which communications channels still worked, which didn't, and was barking commands to those of his men who could be reached, coordinating rescue efforts. The men of SHIELD were milling about the room, taking stock, getting things done. A head count was being made, an assessment of human and mechanical damage was being compiled, and someone was trying in vain to get in contact with the president but settling for some local authorities and hoping for a patch job to the White House.
"Rescue efforts should be on the way," said Fury. "I want an offload of wounded and casualties out of the starboard port. Knock a hole in it if you gotta. Shut yer yap, Pomeroy, only one guy talkin' here. Find me Dugan. Repeat, find me Dugan. Send him here. And get me a report on that silver sonofabitch, right now. Repeat: get a track on the Surfer. NOW."
Stephen Strange was tending to the injured in a most professional manner, Clea acting almost like a nurse. He was currently tending a tourniquet which kept one techno from bleeding to death through an arterial wound in his arm. Clea was completing a makeshift split on a guard's leg. Order, what there was left of it, was being restored.
"That should suffice," said the sorcerer, easing the pressure of the binding just a tad. "The Vishanti protect you, my friend."
"You," said the man, whose face was ashen. "Pal...you're a damn good medic."
Strange smiled.
A second later, four gloved fingers clamped down on his shoulder. "Over here, pal. You and me got words to say."
Straightening up, Dr. Strange turned to face Nick Fury. "Indeed we have, Colonel. Show me where you want to speak."
From the look on Nick's face, he was barely holding in a response that would have pierced steel and concrete. He took them both through the ruin of a door, Clea looking after them expectantly. She didn't have to eavesdrop very hard to hear what Fury had to say.
"You, you spell-slingin' sonofabitch! I let you talk me into bringin' that silver bastard on board this ship, and he almost killed us all. He almost killed over five hundred people!"
"Colonel, I can explain."
"You can squat, mister! I got people wounded, in pain, all over the ship. I got people dead, most likely. Ten minutes ago, they were all healthy. Ten minutes ago, they were going to help us keep this country together. What happened between then and now? We both know, mister. Why did it happen? Because I was too stupid to keep something that already almost blew SHIELD apart off the Carrier!"
"He was not acting of his own—"
"I told you to SHUT UP, Strange! I told you to..."
There was a crack. The sound of flesh hitting flesh.
A moment of silence.
"You hit me," said Fury, in a strange, deliberate voice.
"I did," came Strange's voice. "Now, in the name of the Vishanti, will you be silent and let me say what I must? I scanned the Surfer's mind a moment before he broke through the hull. He was under the control of a foreign entity."
"A what?"
"The Surfer's mind was being controlled by another, Colonel. He was being forced to do what he did by another being."
A beat. "Mentallo," said Fury.
"Who?"
"A guy with mind control powers. He almost beat SHIELD once, with his partner the Fixer. It's gotta be him."
"I cannot say," Strange admitted. "But neither your judgment nor mine was in error, Colonel. Can you not see, man? Is it not obvious to you? Whoever has mobilized the host of super-villains, whoever has orchestrated the chaos across our land, also somehow learned that the Surfer was aboard your ship, and did this to strike down the power of SHIELD."
Another beat. "Think you can prove this?"
"By your standards, those of scientific measurement, no. By my standards, whereby the weights and balances of the spirit and mysticism are measured, absolutely. This was meant to defeat us, Colonel Fury. To tear us apart. Whether or not it succeeds is absolutely up to you."
A third beat. "You damned hocus-pocus, rabbit-grabbin'-out-of-a-hat, fake Houdini woman-sawin' bastard. I'm going to have myself taken off duty once this is over, if we live through it, and check myself into Section Eight for at least a month. So help me."
"Well, Colonel?"
"Help me save my men, Strange. Then we go after the Surfer."
"Absolutely."
"We bring him down."
"We free him from control."
"If we can, Strange. If we can't..."
Clea's concentration on the conversation was broken by the presence of two others entering the room, one by pushing a large section of the wall out of the way. That one was the Hulk. The other, Namor, arrived holding his right arm in a deliberate way, supported by his left.
"We succeeded," said the Sub-Mariner, quietly.
"Subby," said Spider-Man, trying to find a comfortable place in his web. "What happened to your arm, man?"
"I fear it may be broken," admitted the prince.
"Magician," rumbled the Hulk, as Clea got up and began to walk towards him. "Where is Magician?"
In response, both Strange and Fury emerged from the office. The tension between the two of them was palpable. But Clea sensed that there was an accord between them as well.
"I am here, Hulk," said Dr. Strange. "You were strong. You were good. You and Namor saved the lives of everyone on this vessel. Well done, my friend."
Nick Fury stepped up to the green behemoth, paused, then stuck out his hand. "Big guy," he said, "put 'er there. You're a brother in arms."
Whether the Hulk understood the term or not, he did know how to shake hands. Fury was grateful that all his fingers were not crushed. Then the head of SHIELD walked over to Namor as well. "Touch not the presence of the prince of Atlantis," warned Sub-Mariner.
"The hell with that," said Fury. "You're hurt. You helped save me and my men. I'm gonna take ya to sick bay, whatever's left of it, and see about getting you taken care of."
"I will return to Atlantis," said Namor. "I have discharged my duty here, and much beyond that."
Fury looked away for a second, scratched the back of his head, and then turned back. "Seems to me you're forgettin' somethin'."
Namor looked at him, curious despite himself.
"You saw action in the Big One. Double-U Double-U Two. So did I. On the same side."
"I but fought for my people then. Against a common enemy."
"We all did," admitted Fury. "We was all soldiers. We still are. A soldier don't let another soldier get wounded, and not do somethin' about it. And I ain't lettin' no foreign dignitary get hurt on my ship, without seein' he gets medical attention."
Namor looked at him grimly for a moment. Then he sighed. After that, he laughed.
"Surface man, you know the burden of command. That, and Namor the First has gone unsound in mind from associating with your kind too long, and not fighting them. Lead me to your infirmary. I will accept this, as a brother in arms."
The Hulk watched Fury guide Namor out of the room. "Brothers," he said. "What is this Brothers Arms?"
Clea, before him, said, "It is what we all are, Hulk. Friends, working in a common cause. You, me, Stephen, Namor, and Colonel Fury. All of us brothers...and sister."
The green head turned towards Spider-Man, still stuck in the dissolving web with the two SHIELD agents. "Him too?"
"Him too," Clea confirmed.
Spider-Man heaved an audible sigh of relief.
-M-
The Fantastic Four knew they were flying into a trap. The fact that they'd sprung many such traps over the course of their eleven-year history wasn't much comfort. They'd fought large masses of foes before, at Reed and Sue's wedding and when the Puppet Master and Mad Thinker had launched robot ringers of their old enemies at them. But it wouldn't be anything like this, they estimated.
Somehow, a unit of super-villains that included three of the original Frightful Four, some of the Sinister Six, and a few independent FF enemies, had managed to get to Seattle after a recent sighting in New York. Reed didn't know how they got there so quickly, but figured that the Wizard's anti-grav ships had something to do with it.
A few of the baddies they'd never fought before. That didn't seem to matter. What did matter, to Reed, was that he was continually putting his wife in harm's way. Sue didn't gripe about it. On the contrary, she insisted on sharing the risks of the team. But it was getting increasingly grim to Reed Richards. They had a son now, one who was at home watching the proceedings with Agatha Harkness through a video setup that came through a small camera within Reed's belt buckle. He didn't know how smart that was, either. The kid might see his parents die.
Not for the first time, Reed wished that Crystal had been able to keep Sue's place in the team. But that just wasn't possible now.
All they had was to face their foes, somehow defeat them, and then come home and hope they could learn the identity of the one behind the nationwide operation. Unless he missed his educated guess, they didn't have that much time for the latter.
They were over the upper Midwest now, and it wouldn't be long before Washington was in view. All the necessary talk had been made before, so Reed remained silent, for the most part.
"Reed," said Johnny, through his intercom mike, "got me a 'what-if' going."
"What's on your mind, Johnny?" answered Reed through the microphone on his headset.
"It's like, what-if we didn't even go to Seattle? We both know it's a distraction. Whoever's behind all this wanted to divide us from the Avengers, and he did. So we're walkin' straight into whatever he's got planned for us. And that might be a lot worse than that buncha walking wanted posters we already know about."
"I'd agree with you on everything so far," admitted Reed, eyeing the map-scan on his instrument panel. "Unfortunately, there's not a lot we can do about it. The Masters of Evil is a larger unit than the Frightful Four and company. We both decided that all the Avengers would have to deal with them, both from their power and experience factors. If either one of us finishes our battles first, we help the other. But..."
"But we're still walkin' into a trap, and I knew better'n that when I was a kid on Yancy Street territory," rumbled the Thing. "And you know, Stretcho, whatever happens to the rest o' the country's probably gonna happen while we're out waltzin' with our old sparrin' partners."
"Ben has a valid point, dear," said Susan. "Maybe if we held back, helped the Avengers as their ace in the hole, it might work to our advantage. Then they could help us out in Seattle."
Reed sighed. "I went over that very point with Thor, Hank Pym, and Hawkeye. Even with the Vision. We have to assume the two villain groups are in contact with each other, either directly or through the man running this op. If both of us double-teamed one target, that'd probably be a signal for the other group to go on an even bigger rampage. Maybe involving the death of innocent people."
"Our bad guys don't go in for murder," answered Ben Grimm.
"There's always a first time," said Reed, grimly. "I also feel that this might well be the last time."
After a pause, the Torch said, "Well, what about reinforcements for us? The Avengers aren't the only game in town."
"I've already sent messages to Daredevil and the Inhumans in San Francisco and the X-Men in Dallas. They've indicated that they're busy with mop-up, but they'll help when and if they can get free. This war is wearing them down, too."
"Nice to know," groused the Thing.
"So...we engage the enemy, we find a way to win, and then we come back and try to solve this mystery," said Reed. "And then..."
Sue Richards broke the pause. "And then what, Reed?"
"And then, if we make it, we're going to have to sit down and consider what we're going to do with the Fantastic Four."
"Whaddya mean, Stretcho?" asked the Thing, leaning forward in his seat. "You ain't talkin' about ditchin' the team, are ya?"
Reed took a deep breath. "Not that, Ben. But we've paid our dues as fighters for justice. There are a lot of heroes out there, maybe more to take their place when they leave. Sue and I have a son now, and he deserves to have a mother and father who aren't risking their lives every month. Johnny needs to go back to college. If it wasn't for the FF, he'd already have graduated. If we make it through...no, when we make it through...it'll be time to think about other things. At least, from my point of view."
"Ya can't mean that!"
"Ben," said Reed Richards deliberately, "I've never meant anything more in my life. But if this is the Fantastic Four's last hurrah, one way or another...let's make sure they remember it forever. And that we remember it forever. Are you with me?"
"You don't even have to ask, brother-in-law," said Johnny Storm. But he didn't say it lightly.
Ben leaned both arms on the headboard of his Fantasticar unit. "You know I'm in it to the end, Reed. I just didn't think I'd hear about it like this. Wottheheck, let's knock a few bad guys all the way to Jebru when we land this thing. Just for the old times."
Sue simply said, "I'm in, too, Reed," and that was that.
There was little more to say on the way to Seattle.
-M-
The Silver Surfer was making war against the East Coast, and he was winning.
That he had no control of his actions made little difference to the people below him. All they knew is that a silver figure flashed across the sky on a surfboard, bolts of power erupted from his hands, and buildings, cars, and other objects began blowing up, liquefying, or burning. Thankfully, either no or very few people seemed to be caught in the conflagration. It didn't stop them from running like hell.
The voice within his head kept urging him to destruction. Another voice, deeper down, restrained him so that there was no loss of life. For the moment, the two balanced each other out. The Surfer kept sending bolts of the Power Cosmic to devastate things he encountered on a trip down the Eastern Seaboard, and he was making exceptionally good time.
The government called on the Air Force to deploy the Sonic Shark. This was a missile with destructive energy properties that had almost destroyed the Surfer before, until the Fantastic Four saved him. The Air Force obliged. The missile took wing, and it homed in on the Surfer.
This time the Surfer was ready for it.
Before it could get within deadly range, he targeted it with a bolt, stripped it into its component parts, isolated and destroyed the element dangerous to himself, disintegrated that, reassembled the missile, and sent it back at the ones who had deployed it.
They had enough warning to get off the base before the thing impacted, exploding and destroying the entire installation.
The military didn't have time to worry about egg on their faces. This was serious business, to say the least.
Somebody called President Nixon to give him the news almost as soon as the dust cleared.
The president tried to contact the super-heroes of America, only to find that everybody was out battling somebody or other. The Surfer was top priority. They had to be put on his trail.
If they were having trouble with super-villains, the government would just have to lend them a hand.
After that, they could get back on the job.
Everybody should be satisfied with that.
-M-
In a corresponding structure in Moscow, Leonid Breshnev was going over things with the military, the Politburo, and several other of his flunkies.
He informed them that President Nixon had already sent a warning to him personally to stay out of matters in America concerning the Crisis, and Breshnev had assured the president that his country had nothing to do with them. That despite the fact that some of their own heroes, damn it all, had defected in the face of capitalist profiteering. If the Titanium Man came back, they'd melt his armor down for use in the space program, with him in it.
Several of the group, including the militarists, suggested that it might now be possible to make aggressive moves in certain parts of the world. They might even give Fidel back his bombs. After all, it wasn't like the U.S. had time to watch that closely, was it? Maybe they could even...
The premier slammed his fist down on the table. No, he said. Such thinking is base adventurism. If America falls apart, and is unable to command a unilateral nuclear attack, things will obviously be different. But at this point, they have not lost their chain of command. It is only be strained, very hard. Within a few days, the true situation should become clear. Perhaps even by tomorrow. For now...the USSR will stand and wait.
So, after some attention to lesser matters, the members of the Politburo went home to wait.
Secretly, they didn't think they'd have to wait that long.
-M-
In Peiping, after some consultation by phone with both the president and the premier, Mao Tse-Tung advised much the same course as Breshnev. The ruling council took his advice.
In Viet Nam, the Communist forces went on greater offensive, taking advantage of the chaotic conditions in America and of reduced Allied troop strength due to Vietnamization. It was a replay of the Tet offensive, in stereo. South Vietnamese, American, and Australian troops fought back and tried to hold their ground with varying results. Life was lost on both sides. That was nothing unusual.
Europe, pretty much bereft of super-heroes, watched and waited. Branch offices of SHIELD around the globe got communiques from the American branch almost by the minute. They were placed on high alert, but so far just told to stand by.
Canada and Mexico looked nervously at their neighbor. Central and South America, to a lesser degree, did the same.
The Middle East was busy with conflicts of its own, though the news programs often carried pictures of the conflict. Even there, people watched when super-heroes were on the tube.
Australia, Japan, Africa, India, and all other points had their separate reactions. From the scope of the conflict, everyone knew that things were going to be reordered once the fighting was over. What affected America would affect them, one way or the other.
Assuming, of course, after this there still would be an America.
That was an assumption some were beginning, tentatively, to question.
-M-
"Cap didn't give you a hint of where he was going, Hank?"
"None."
Hawkeye slapped the instrument panel with the hand he wasn't using to guide the Quinjet. "Blast it. We've lost him, we've lost Shellhead, and we're on the way to the fight of our lives."
"Isn't that always the way of it, Clint?" asked Jan Van Dyne, sitting next to her husband. "We have to go out there, no matter what our member strength, and do what we have to. I remember when it was just you, me, and Hank here for a time."
"Yeah," agreed Hawkeye, grimly, as their ship soared through the airspace of the Midwest. "That was until we got T'Challa here, and then the Vision." The Black Panther sat a few seats behind them, listening but keeping his peace. "We got back up to strength, but it blamed well took us a while. And here we are, about to mix it up with everybody this side of Pruneface and B. B. Eyes."
"We've fought them before, many times, and beaten them every time," the Scarlet Witch reminded him, holding hands in the back with the Vision. "We recently finished fighting the Krees and Skrulls, and then the Olympians. What in heaven's name makes you so uptight this time, Clint?"
The archer sighed. "It's just...I'm afraid for Cap. Want to hear a revelation?"
"One would imagine that you want us to, given your tone and inflection," said the Vision, in his sepulchral voice. "Speak, Clint."
"All right. I barely knew my dad...he cut out of the family when I was a kid. You've heard the story before. Me and my brother, we ran off, joined the circus, and that's where I learned the bowman bit. From that time to this, I never had a father. But the closest one I ever had to that was Cap. And if anybody tells him that, I'll paste him one."
"What if I tell him?" asked the Wasp, wickedly.
"Then I'll paste you to the wall with a glue arrow."
"Hawkeye," said the Witch, "I served with you in the second Avengers grouping. I remember how you acted towards Cap from day one. Sarcastic, mocking, disrespectful. Did you see him as a father then?"
"Yeah," said Hawkeye. "I must not have liked him as a dad back then. But maybe it was what I needed. When you and Jan came back, Hank, the chemistry changed. Then came the day we went up against Natasha and her two bozoes, and I let 'em go. I told Winghead to give me the third degree. He wouldn't do it. He just told me he knew I was human, and let it go. I felt like...well...you can imagine."
"I suppose I can," said T'Challa. "I remember my father, T'Chaka, well. He was taken from me, all too early, by Klaw. So I, too, can sympathize, my friend."
"Your dad wasn't anything like my dad," replied Hawkeye.
Ant-Man waved the rest to silence. "You know something, Clint?"
Hawkeye shot a look back. "What?"
"I think Cap was a father to you in more ways than you think. Because I don't think you grew up until he left you alone."
The man in the purple mask stiffened at his control. "You got about thirty seconds to start makin' sense. I'm drivin', remember?"
"So put it on automatic," said Henry Pym. "Maybe I noticed it because, for a long time, it was you, me, and Jan holding down the fort, with help from T'Challa and Vizh later on. But I saw you when Cap was there, before he did that temporary quitting thing when he thought he was retiring. I don't know what you were like when it was just you, Cap, Wanda, and Pietro—"
"Dreadful," said Wanda, with a snicker.
"—But I do know how it was when Jan and I came back. You were a smart-mouth, at first. Then you started trying to grow up, it looked like, after the incident you just talked about. But you still didn't like following Cap's orders. Kind of like it was Dad telling you what to do, right?"
Hawkeye sighed. "Keep going. Maybe you'll say something I like."
"Hear me out. So, when Wanda and Pietro left—and that's water under the bridge now, Wanda, don't worry—it was just the three of us. You had to really help us run the show. And you know what? You were very, very good at it."
"Awww, shucks."
The Wasp said, "Clint, ease up. The big boy's trying to give you a compliment, okay?"
"He knows, Jan," said Hank. "It's just it embarrasses him to admit he knows. You helped us time and again, even before that...the Sons of the Serpent, the Red Guardian, all of them. But it wasn't until Cap wasn't there to hold your towel for you that you really managed to grow up."
"How do you know?"
"How was it that you took the initiative to start a new career as Goliath, when Natasha needed you?"
Hawkeye was silent.
"The old Hawkeye never would have been that much of a start-up guy. Sure, dependable in a fight, but not as imaginative as that. Then the two of us left, and you practically ended up running the team for awhile. As Goliath. Remember that?"
"Hey," said Clint, quietly. "Somebody had to do it."
The Vision spoke up. "And you did it, Clint Barton. You did it very well."
"Nobody named me chairman!"
"Nobody had to, Clint," said Wanda. "We all trusted you. You weren't the brainiest one in the bunch. But whether you knew it or not...you could lead."
There was silence for a number of seconds.
"And you know what, Clint?" said Ant-Man. "Sure, we're all capable of acting on our own. We wouldn't have been independent operators, those of us who were, otherwise. But with Captain America gone...I think it's going to be you again."
"I can't!"
"You can't what, Clint?" said Janet Van Dyne. "You can't help us fight the enemy? You can't help us save the John Q's from the bad guys, like you've been doing all along?"
The Black Panther spoke up. "I think he can, Janet. As a king, I've been trained to recognize many qualities in the men I have to deal with, and in myself, when need be. I can recognize things in you, Clint, that I have never spoken of. But one of those things, my good friend...is leadership."
Again, silence.
"So, what now?" said Hawkeye, almost hoarsely. "What difference is that supposed to make?"
"None," said Wanda. "We know what to do, and so do you. We just wanted you to know, Clint. And something else. We're very, very proud of you."
"Clint," said Hank Pym. "You, kind of, want me to take the controls or something?"
"I'll be all right, Pym," said Hawkeye, huskily. "Just stay in your seat, okay? Do somethin' like write the script for The Incredible Shrinking Man Returns. We've...got a job to do."
Jan smiled. "We know it, Clint. And now...so do you."
-M-
Nobody dared tell the Kingpin that he and his men had gone to ground. But there they were, in an underground complex that had been started back in the Cold War for sheltering secondary government officials, abandoned during the Kennedy Administration as a sign of good faith with the Russians, and forgotten. Except by the Kingpin, who quietly bought it, finished it, and held it for times such as these.
He had gone there with his wife, his son, his factotum, and six men who oversaw his operations. There was simply no telling which way this crisis would end, and until it did, the best thing for them was to wait it out. Luckily, the sub-street haven had been furnished with the best touches (and some of the worst) of the crimelord's penthouse lair. Melissa and Richard Fisk were in the areas designated as the Kingpin's apartment now, which was the way he wanted it. He himself was in his business office, with Loomis, his major-domo. Right now, there was little else to do but go over last month's business records and try to make contingency plans for what scenarios might arise.
After all, no matter what society arose in this one's place, it would need crime.
That was what was going on when Seward walked into the room, in a state of agitation. "Kingpin," he said, "you started this."
The great bald head looked up from the ledger on the desk before him. "Explain yourself," he said, calmly. Loomis was already moving to close the door.
"Stay where you are," said Seward, standing between Loomis and the door. "Kingpin. You sold those freaks weapons. You sold them information. You told them where to find some of the long-underwear guys."
"And?" The master of New York's underworld contemplated his lieutenant without emotion.
"And now this! The whole country's goin' to hell from those hippies and spades riotin', and the Long Johnnies fightin' it out. This is my country, Kingpin. I served!"
"I am quite well aware of your service record, Mr. Seward," stated the Kingpin. "And of how you had to be sprung from a military prison."
"This is bigger'n that," said Seward. "I got family on the outside, Kingpin. I'm gonna go find 'em."
"That would not be advisable, Mr. Seward."
Loomis, looking on, strove to keep his poker-playing face intact. He knew what was coming. Seward, on some level, probably knew it, too.
"I'm going," said Seward, bolting for the door. "I'm singin'!"
Loomis had never seen a desk overturned with such rapidity. He doubted he himself could even lift the thing off the ground for very long, given its weight and contents. The Kingpin swept it away within a second. It landed upside-down on the floor and Loomis had to move to keep his feet from being crushed.
The Kingpin already had his hands on Seward's head and body.
He turned them in different directions.
After the snap was heard, the Kingpin opened his huge hands and let the body fall to the carpet. The look on Seward's lifeless face was one of the most horrific Loomis had ever seen on a stiff, and he'd seen plenty of them. Not breathing hard, the Kingpin smoothed his white coat. "Loomis," he said. "Deal with Mr. Seward. And come back in here with a rug cleaner, please."
"Yes, sir," said Loomis, automatically, and hauled Seward out the door by the feet.
When he was gone, the Kingpin lifted the desk, placed it back in its customary position, picked up the objects which had fallen from it and rearranged them on its top. He took his chair from the floor, righted it, and sat down again. The loss of Seward was not troubling to him. The current situation was.
He had never wanted to conquer America, like some two-for-a-penny costumed villain with more powers than brains. All he wanted to do was profit from it, like any other good businessman. Now, he feared he had overreached himself. True, he'd just been trying to turn a profit.
But now he might see all his profits go up in the Fire.
To be continued...