Part 24
by DarkMark
Professor Charles Xavier knew he had company only a short time before he could see him. Not for the first time, he marveled at the man's ability to control his own thoughts.
The door swung open without being touched, and that with all the anti-magnetic elements which had been installed. Standing beyond it, on the porch, was a familiar figure.
"May I come in?" he said.
Xavier looked calmly on his visitor. "I don't think I could stop you if I wanted to, Erik. Welcome."
His cape rustling, Magneto stepped across the threshold of the mansion at Greymalkin Lane.
For a long few moments, he simply stood there. Xavier thought that he looked tired. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a couch in the receiving room.
The helmeted man shook his head, wearily. "No, thank you, Charles. I don't think I'll be here that long."
Professor X tensed. "It's come to that, then?"
Magneto spread his hands. "Did you think it could come to anything else, Charles?"
"Actually, yes. Through all the battles, all the conflicts, even the one in which I felt the impact of your bomb, Erik, I never stopped hoping. I knew who you were, Erik. That's why I hoped."
"Then why did you oppose me?"
"Because I knew who you were."
Magneto waited. Then he said, "Why did you leave no one to guard you, Charles?"
"Call me an old romantic. I had hoped to reason with you one more time. At least, to have a conversation."
The lord of evil mutants turned his back to Xavier and leaned against the wall.
"Our age is over, Charles. There is no more left for me. Leiber Gott, do you remember how I was only a few years ago? So much...so much energy..." He turned, his eyes almost pleading, looking at Xavier.
"I know, Erik. Believe me, I know." Xavier tried to look with kindness on the man he knew probably better than any other man in his life. "But it still is not too late. One age ends. Another beckons. The old must be there to help the new. Wouldn't you agree?"
"No," said Magneto. "I'm sorry, but...no. Sometimes, the old are just obstructions. Things that have to be shunted aside, or destroyed. This is..." He looked around the room. "This is all we have left."
"It still isn't too late, Erik."
The red-and-purple-clad man almost leaped upon the man in the wheelchair. "Dammit! It was too late ten years ago, Charles. It was too late thirty years ago. It is much too late today. You know that as well as I."
"Together, Erik, we could accomplish so much."
"Together, Charles, we should have accomplished much. But instead...all we ever did was fight." He lifted a table by its metallic legs, made as if to smash it through the front window, then stopped and levitated it back to the floor.
"All we ever did was fight," he said.
Xavier had already launched his psychic bolt as he felt the flux of magnetism surrounding him. In times past, he had always proven faster than Erik, if only by a hair.
He didn't know whether he should pray for the same speed now, or not.
-M-
The Fantasticar was not far away from their target site, in Seattle. The Frightful Four unit had taken over Ft. Lewis, a USAF base not far from Tacoma. There were enough hostages there, particularly military men and women, and enough war-making machinery and security risks for it to be worth the villains' while. Provided that was what they were really after.
Reed Richards doubted it. There were other places less well-defended in Seattle proper, areas where the number of hostages to be had would dwarf those at the Air Force base. No, this place had been chosen as a battleground. Probably intended as the FF's last.
"Ben, Johnny, Sue," said Reed, through the headphones that kept them in clear touch throughout the flight. "This time they won't be holding back. I doubt they'll be in hit-and-run mode, as they were last time. We're going to be outnumbered. We're going to be outgunned. The only thing we can say for ourselves is...we won't be outfought."
"Amen, Stretcho," said the Thing, as softly as he could.
"We'll have a few things up our sleeve as well," Reed went on. "Despite it all, I think we're going to come out on top in this one. If we don't...you already know the rest. You're the best of friends, the best of teammates. The best family I think a man's ever had.
"That's all. Are you ready?"
"Bring 'em on!" shouted Ben Grimm.
"You hadda ask, brother-in-law?", chimed in the Torch.
"You know where I stand, darling," murmured Sue Richards.
Grimly, Reed Richards smiled. "That's all. We'll be landing within five minutes. That is, if we get that close."
He set the monitor control to survey the scene at the base. A small screen popped up on the control surface of his Fantasticar module. An amazingly clear picture of the scene in question came up on it. The picture was being transmitted from a communications satellite Reed himself had engineered and put in orbit with the government's consent, one which was far in advance of the ones even the U.S. had employed.
It was easy to see who was in the open, on the field in which a few planes were displayed. The Sandman, the Trapster (Reed couldn't refrain from thinking of him as "Paste-Pot Pete"), the Gladiator, the Wizard, Dr. Octopus, Electro. A melange of the Frightful Four, the Sinister Six, and the Emissaries of Evil. Stupid names, but the men who bore them still had the power to destroy a city. Some of them had brains enough to conquer a nation.
That was something Reed vowed never to allow happen.
They were surrounding a group of airmen and office workers on a field, their captives sitting down, unarmed, and menaced by nothing more nor less than their captors' powers.
"There have to be more of them," said Reed. "Expect it. All right, team...attack!"
The Fantasticar split into four separate modules. The Thing, the Invisible Girl, the Human Torch, and Mr. Fantastic zeroed in on their enemies from four separate directions.
From nearby buildings, there erupted a larger squad of villains. Kraven, two Vultures, the Shocker, the Eel, Mysterio, the Red Ghost, Diablo, the Beetle, the Wizard, the Plantman, the Hate-Monger, the Terrible Trio, and even an old warhorse the Torch had fought only a single time, the Asbestos Man. With all that, Johnny Storm was surprised he didn't see the Painter of 1,000 Perils, but he supposed the Wizard had some standards, after all.
The Thing's voice came over the Torch's heat-resistant headset. "Well, here's the reinforcements. Tell 'er, Torchy!"
The Torch flipped a switch on his headset, reaching another frequency. "Phase in now," he said.
The very air around the villains and hostages on the ground shimmered in one direction. The Wizard pointed that way, and the Sandman shot off sandblasts from one hand with machine-gun rapidity towards it. Whatever was beyond the portal spattered the blasting granules with an unseen shield.
Then several costumed figures streamed forth from the hole in the air: Black Bolt, Medusa, Karnak, Gorgon, Triton, Crystal (wearing a breathing mask over her mouth and nose to protect her from the air's impurities), the titanic dog Lockjaw in the midst of them, and, bringing up the rear, Daredevil and the Black Widow.
"Greetings from San Francisco, guys," shouted DD, vaulting into the fray.
"Hornhead," muttered the Gladiator, starting his hand-blades whirling. "Back off, boys, the guy in red is mine."
The battle began.
-M-
In the Savage Land, Ka-Zar stood over the fallen form of his brother, the Plunderer. The costumed villain had made another foray against the jungle man and his great cat with the aid of Maa-Gor, the savage caveman. But the Neanderthal had finally perished by the great sabre-toothed fangs of Zabu, and Ka-Zar had defeated the costumed Plunderer, even though the latter wielded a Vibranium-powered weapon mightier than any he'd possessed before, plus an alliance with Magneto's mutants, Siryn, Brainchild, Amphibius, Gaza, and the rest.
The lord of the Antarctic jungle grasped his brother Parnival by the shirt front and hauled him up, dragging him to a face-to-face position. "Why have you attacked me here, brother? Why now?"
The Plunderer spit in his brother's face. Ka-Zar hit him again, not gently.
While his brother groveled on the rocky soil, Ka-Zar spoke softly. "You will tell me. Speak."
"It was...maybe...the last time," rasped the Plunderer.
"The last time for what?" Ka-Zar's blue eyes flashed with curiosity.
"The last...time...I could get to you," the villain replied. "Things...are changing in the outer world. I could barely get...the backing to come for you."
"From who?"
"The man who...backs us all," said the Plunderer, rising to his knees.
Ka-Zar stepped closer. "Tell me," he demanded. Nearby, Zabu growled meaningfully.
The Plunderer looked at his brother Kevin, then muttered his reply.
"The master of the Fire," he said.
-M-
The President of the United States had patched through a call to Nick Fury at SHIELD as soon as a workable mobile unit on the fallen Heli-Carrier could be found. FEMA was already on the scene, helping with the injured, tallying the damages and the dead, taking statements, and, luckily, not coming upon the Defenders and Spider-Man, who were sequestered in a walled-off portion of the ship. Dum Dum and Val were with Fury, and the situation was tense.
"Uh, Colonel Fury, can you, uh, give me a report? In brief, and in overview?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. President," said Fury, his cigar still smoking in the ashtray on his desk. "The responsibility is mine. I took on board a group of super-people, some of 'em outlaws. I thought they could be of help to us, and they were. But one of 'em went berserk."
"The, uh, Silver Surfer," said Nixon.
"That's him," Fury said. "Somethin' came over him while he was on deck and he just punched a hole through the outer hull. It capsized us."
"You took the Silver Surfer aboard the Heli-Carrier?"
"Yes, sir. I was led to believe he would not be a threat. One of the others, who has some kinda experience in this line, says the Surfer was under mind control from somebody else."
"Under mind control."
"Yes, sir."
"From somebody else."
"Yes, sir, that's what he indicated."
"Who?"
"Sir?"
"Who was controlling the Surfer?"
"We don't know yet, sir."
"Who was your consultant on that matter, Colonel?"
"He calls himself Doctor Strange, sir."
"Doctor What Strange?"
"Well, I don't know his first name, sir, although I think it might be Stephen. That's what I think his girlfriend called him, sir."
"What is he a doctor of?"
"I think he's a magician, sir."
Silence.
"He used some kinda power to help us keep the Heli-Carrier together, sir. And two of his men helped catch it when it went down."
"Catch it?"
"Uh, yes, sir. They caught the Heli-Carrier when it fell, sir."
"They caught it?"
"Yes, sir. One of them broke his arm, sir. Doing it."
"Who were these two, Colonel?"
"The Hulk, sir. And the Sub-Mariner. The Sub-Mariner's the one got his arm broke, sir."
"You let the Hulk aboard the Heli-Carrier, Colonel?"
"Uh, yes, sir. I was led to believe—"
"The Hulk?"
"Yes, sir, and he was well-behaved, sir. He hasn't gotten out of hand during the whole incident, sir. Nor has the Sub-Mariner."
"Colonel. Where is the Hulk now?"
"Uh. He's still aboard the Carrier, sir."
"And the Sub-Mariner?"
"He's here, too, sir. I think he's still in Sick Bay, but he may be somewhere else now."
On the other end, Nixon sighed. "Colonel Fury. You're relieved of your position as director of SHIELD, effective immediately. You will report to Commander Roberts of FEMA and tell him to get you to Washington as soon as possible for a debriefing. Is that clear, Colonel?"
More silence.
"Colonel Fury."
"Yes, sir. It is clear, sir."
Beside him, Val drew in a deep breath and clutched Nick's hand.
"In the interim, Agent Dugan will take over your duties until a new director can be appointed. Put me through to Dugan, Colonel."
Dum Dum looked at Nick, incredulous. He waved his hands, indicating he wanted no part of it. Silently, he begged Nick Fury to stay in command.
But Nick Fury stood, gave Dugan a look, beckoned him to the seat of command, and began to walk away. Val went with him, grasping his hand.
Dugan took the telephone in hand, staring after his old topkick, his mouth open and trying in vain to form words. A choked noise came from his throat.
He heard the president's voice calling his name.
After a long moment, he said, "Agent Dugan. Sir."
-M-
Outside, Val said to Nick, "I'm going with you."
"You better not," said Fury. "They'll have me in a federal pen for holding by sundown."
"I don't give a damn. I'm going with you, even if they have to stick me in the same cell."
Nick turned to her. "Val. I'm going to need somebody to keep track of things here."
"You've got Dugan."
"I need you."
"And that's why I'm coming with you."
"I'm giving you an order, Contessa."
She looked him in the eye. "Aren't you forgetting something? You've been relieved of command."
Fury looked at her, started to say something in anger, then softened. He looked at the cracks in the walls before him, the stress fractures, the bends and warping, and knew he was very, very lucky that this was the only damage visible in this part of the hall.
"Come on, then," he said. "It's gonna be a long ride, Val."
"I expect so, Nick."
"I'm...kinda glad you're with me."
"I'm kinda glad I am, too, Nick."
The two walked down the hall, hand in hand. On the way, agents saluted Fury. He saluted back. He didn't say a word.
-M-
Jasper Sitwell was walking with the aid of a crutch. He'd taken a nasty fracture when he was thrown against a wall in the Carrier's descent. He counted himself lucky.
As he went through the double-hatched doors to the suite where their guests were hidden, he stopped stock-still in the doorway. The sight of the Hulk and Sub-Mariner would cause a man to do that, even if Spider-Man, the man in the red cape, and the white-haired woman were a bit more manageable.
"Uh, gentlemen," said Sitwell. "And lady. I have regrettable news to report."
"More regrettable than what we have borne?" asked the Sub-Mariner, acidly.
"Peace, Namor," said Clea. "You are?"
"My name is Jasper Sitwell. I am an agent of SHIELD, assistant to Colonel Fury, and..." He sighed. "I must inform you that...Colonel Fury has been relieved of duty."
"What?" Spider-Man stood upright in a flash. "What're you talking about, Joe College?"
Dr. Strange silenced him with a gesture. Thankfully, the Hulk was keeping still. "Agent Sitwell," said Strange, "tell me what has happened."
Sitwell related, briefly, the events of the last thirty minutes. "The President has advised me that those of you whom he mentioned are to be held here until they can, ah, decide what course of action to take."
Namor stood and grasped Sitwell by the lapel, hauling him off the floor with one hand. "Listen, little man. We shall decide what course to be taken, ourselves! Namor the First answers to no surface man, no, not even your President. And the word of Namor is the word of Atlantis supreme!"
The Hulk stood up. "No one tells Hulk where to go! Hulk SMASH!"
"No, Hulk!" Clea put her hands against his chest. "The man is an ally. He is a friend of the Eye-Patched one. It is not a good thing to smash him."
"Friend of Eye-Patch?"
Clea nodded.
"Oh, yes," said Sitwell. "A very, very, very good friend, uh, Mr. Hulk, sir. Mr., that is, Prince Namor, I assure you that you are a guest, not a prisoner. That is how, uh, Colonel Fury and Agent Dugan wish it to be."
The Hulk subsided, but his eye glowed balefully. "Girl better be right," he declared.
Disgustedly, the Sub-Mariner put Sitwell down and turned away. "Strange," he said, "I shall return home."
"No, Namor," said Dr. Strange, stepping towards his ally. "We need you."
"Atlantis needs me more."
Strange said, "But, if things...get out of hand..." He nodded, gently, towards the Hulk.
"Then it shall be your problem, and I wish you well. Now stand aside."
"Subby," said Spider-Man. "They're gonna need you. I have to go home."
"What?" Sub-Mariner, Clea, Dr. Strange, and Sitwell turned towards the web-spinner almost in unison.
"I've got to go," repeated Spider-Man. "I've got a family waiting
for me. They'll be worried sick about me by now. That's all
I can tell you. I'm as patriotic as the next guy, but there ain't
a lot more I can do here, right now. That's it. I've gotta
go."
Strange said, "But, Spider-Man, the president knows that you've been
part of this episode. You'll be hunted down for questioning."
Sitwell cleared his throat. "Not exactly, Doctor."
The sorcerer looked at the spy. "What do you mean by that?"
"Colonel Fury didn't mention Spider-Man in his report. No order's been given about him, specifically. So, if he wishes to leave before such orders are given..."
Dr. Strange turned towards Spider-Man, and the younger hero thought his friend looked tired. "Are you certain that this course is what you wish, Spider-Man?"
"I'm certain it's what I've gotta do, Doc," Spidey replied. "If you'll step aside, I think I can try and find a way home."
"It would take you days," said Clea.
"There is an easier way," said Strange. With that, he forked the fingers of both hands and pointed them at Spider-Man. Then he began to chant:
"By Faltine's flames of fury,
And the twelve-mooned Raggador,
Let my ally be transported
Towards a more familiar shore!"
Orange beams of energy spurted from his hands. Jasper Sitwell gasped in awe and shrank back against the wall. This, truly, was a power beyond anything SHIELD had mastered.
The beams struck Spider-Man. Within a second, he was there no more.
"Great heavens," breathed Sitwell.
"Web-man gone," observed the Hulk.
Dr. Strange turned towards Namor. "If I can change the mind of the president towards us, and towards Fury, will you stay?"
The Sub-Mariner regarded his ally. "I would consider it."
"Then give me a moment," said the magician. With that, he sank to a cross-legged lotus position on the floor, closed his eyes, turned his head upward, and fell motionless. None but Clea saw what really happened next.
The spirit of Stephen Strange rose from his body, penetrated the ceiling, and was lost to even her sight.
Sitwell found his voice again. "Is he, uh, is he meditating?"
With a slight smile, Clea turned towards Sitwell. "He is travelling."
-M-
The place to which Dr. Strange's ectoplasmic form was travelling was in Washington, D.C. Thankfully, the president was in the Oval Office at the time. The way things were going, Strange half expected him to be in a secret bunker somewhere, waiting for the signal to press the button.
Mind-entry was not a thing he liked to do very often. It was a violation of another man's most personal space. Like it or not, it revealed a great deal of a person's secrets to the magician who did it. But times were desperate on his front as well as the president's, and thus, such means might be necessitated.
At least, that was what Strange told himself as he entered the president's mind.
At his desk, Richard Nixon broke off a conversation with H. R. Haldeman and stared, glassy-eyed, at his crewcut aide. "Sir?" asked Haldeman.
Nixon said nothing.
Good afternoon, Mr. President,> said a voice in the chief executive's mind. This is Dr. Strange.>
Who...>
I mean you no harm, Mr. President. I am a learned and practiced magician, the leader of the Defenders super-hero group, and an ally of Col. Nicholas Fury. You have released him from his job, but I have come to ask that you rescind your order.>
"Mr. President? Mr. President, what's happening?" Haldeman leaned as close as he dared to his boss.
"Shut up, Haldeman," said Nixon, gruffly. "I'm...I don't know what I'm doing."
Mentally, Nixon said, What in the [expletive deleted] are you doing in my head? Is this some Russian psychic trick?>
No trick, Mr. President,> said Stephen Strange. I regret the need to enter your mind-space. But there is no other way to convince you, in the time allotted to me, of the necessity of my case.>
"I don't know who you are," the president said aloud. "But Colonel Fury is not going back to that job."
"Sir? What's that about Colonel Fury?"
"Keep quiet, Haldeman," ordered Nixon. Uh. Am I doing this right?>
Perfectly fine, sir. But Fury is the only one with knowledge and dedication enough to stave off the threat at present. With respect to the one known as Dugan, we can only deal with the Colonel.>
Over two dozen people are dead now, because of your dealing with the Colonel.>
Regrettably, yes. But dozens more, hundreds more, will perish if he is not in the seat of command. Mr. President, he must be returned to power.>
I have given my order. Now get out of my head!>
....>
Are you still here?>
...Mr. President, what is this about your meeting with persons in crimson hoods?>
WHAT??>
I'm sorry. I couldn't help noticing it. It's uppermost in your memories today, I fear.>
WHAT??? Are you from the Washington Post, dammit?>
No. But it would be most interesting if they were to learn of this, would it not?>
I warn you, whoever you are, I'll have you're a...your...I'll have you in a sling if you spread a word of this to anyone! To ANYONE! I'll have you and your...whatevers...in a federal penitentiary within 24 hours!>
By all means, Mr. President, do so. Let us see how long you can keep the Hulk in jail.>
The Hulk?>
Yes, Mr. President. The Hulk.>
Are you the Hulk?>
No, Mr. President. He is an associate of mine.>
Then you're aiding and abetting a known felon, by Joe! I'll have you both up on charges!>
As you wish, Mr. President. Just leave me enough time to contact...the Washington Post, you said?>
NO!>
Well, Mr. President?>
...Damn you.>
What of Colonel Fury?>
Richard Nixon shook his head. Haldeman was calling for Secret Service men and arranging transport to Bethesda. The president lifted his hand. "That, uh, that won't be necessary."
"Mr. President, you're ill," said Haldeman, and added, "obviously."
"Haldeman. I want Fury back on the job. I'm rescinding my order."
"Sir?"
"I want Fury back, pronto. Get hold of him, wherever he is, and tell him he's hired. Again."
"Mr. President, I..."
"NOW, Haldeman!"
Spiritually, Dr. Strange smiled and disengaged from the president's mind. He began the long but swift journey back to his body. Actually, he'd seen a lot more than just the men with the hoods in Nixon's memories. Some things he didn't understand, some things he wasn't sure that he wanted to.
That business with the break-in to Democratic headquarters. Who would be stupid enough to authorize that?
And the tape that had to be erased about seventeen times. Wasn't that overdoing things?
Oh, well. There were more important things at hand.
-M-
The Masters of Evil had taken over the main airport in Atlanta, which made no sense whatever. At least, not obviously. As in all the other incidents, the villains just seemed to be spoiling for a fight.
The Avengers admitted that the MOE had the muscle to spoil for it.
Their recent recruits had given them an edge, as if they really needed
one, and they outnumbered the heroes in this instance. Considering
the Avengers had always believed in strength of numbers, that was saying
something. Also, the Avengers were rightly considered the most powerful
hero team in existence.
But now they were going into battle without two of their key players,
Captain America and Iron Man. They'd make up for it. The team
was trained to fight in whatever membership capacity they possessed.
Still, Cap was an inspiration and a master tactician, and Shellhead was
the strongest Avenger save Thor.
The heck with that, thought Hawkeye. The Avengers had come through everything so far. If he and his arrows had anything to say about it, they'd come through this.
"All right, people," he said through his headset. "There's no point in tryin' for surprise. The Asgard Squad's gonna be showing up when they can, but the bad guys know about 'em already. We're just going to hit 'em, hit 'em hard, and hit 'em fast. They've probably got some surprises. Be ready. Take 'em down, knock 'em out, disarm 'em, go on to the next one. Watch out for your buddies and...watch out for yourselves.
"One thing. Thor, I know you and your lady wanna tag up with the Executioner and his girl. But it'd serve us better if you could take out some of the small fry first. The rest of you, remember another tactic. If we can gang up on one at a time and take him down, so much the better. Like, I dunno, World War I airfighters or somethin'. But in case they don't wanna play it according to Hoyle...play it the way it's dealt.
"Any questions?"
Silence.
"Okay. Get ready to drop." The airport was almost below them. It was easy to see the space the Masters of Evil had cleared for themselves. The wreckage of planes littered its perimeter. The cops and the National Guard were ringing the landing field itself, behind barricades. Not even news helicopters were allowed overhead. There were news crews behind the sawhorses, but not anywhere in front of them.
Like the spectators at the Roman arenas, thought Hawkeye. They called 'em Coliseums, didn't they? Like wrestling arenas?
"Hawkeye! Above!"
The voice was Pietro's, coming through his headphones. Naturally, he'd be the first to see it. There were shouts from the others. Hawkeye looked up.
Above them was the Squadron Sinister member, Dr. Spectrum, in his costume of many colors. But it was the power prism in his hand that drew one's attention.
Especially when twin beams stabbed down from it, hit the Avengers' Quinjets, and slammed them to a hard, rough, and potentially deadly emergency landing, screeching onto the tarmac.
The battle had begun.
-M-
Robbie Robertson was wondering about the chief's behavior. That was nothing unusual. But in the present crisis, nothing was. The main thing he wondered about was why Jameson had called him in for a conference.
Jonah was staring out the window at the afternoon sky.
"Sir?" Robbie shut the door behind himself and waited.
Without turning, Jameson said, "It's happening, Robbie. Gotterdammerung."
The city editor nodded. "I understand, Jonah. Armaggeddon."
Fury in his eyes, Jameson turned. "Not that, you idiot! Armaggeddon's Christian. The last fight between good guys and bad guys. God wins. This isn't that. I read Norse myths when I was a kid. Gotterdammerung was their last battle. It wasn't so cheerful."
Robbie knew better than to disturb Jameson in the middle of a reflection, or a rant. He didn't know which this was, but he knew enough to keep quiet.
"In the Norse myths, everybody dies. The good guys with the bad guys. Then the world gets reborn, somewhere down the line. Maybe it's cyclical. But the point is, in Gotterdammerung, nobody gets out alive." Jameson lit a cigar, took a couple of puffs on it, and took it out of his mouth. "That's us, Robbie. The gods are fighting, and we get to look on in fear and trembling. Either way it goes, we're dead."
"It may not be that bad, Jonah."
"Like blazes it isn't. The Silver Surfer, going berserk. The SHIELD Heli-Carrier dropping out of the sky. Super-freaks fighting it out all over the country. The damned kids and the black radicals rising up in concert with it. It's just like I always feared, Robbie. It's just like I always expected.
"Do you know..." Jameson looked at Robbie, looked down at the carpet, then looked up again, focusing. "Do you know why I've always spoken out against Spider-Man, and all the other costumed nuts? Do you know why, Robbie?"
"I've had a few suspicions, Jonah, but never got a direct answer from you."
"That's because there's several answers, Robbie. All of them good ones. They wouldn't be J. Jonah Jameson reasons otherwise. One great reason is that controversy sells papers. No other paper in town attacks Spider-Man. We do. That makes us unique, makes us stand out in people's minds. You may disagree, but our circulation went up when we started doing it, back in '62, and it hasn't really slacked off since. So, commercialism: that's a big reason, and a good one.
"But there's more than that, of course. You remember 1962. My son...my son John...he was an astronaut. Still is. His flight was set to outdo even Glenn's. Schoolkids would know his name, write letters to him. The president would give him a White House reception, and I'd have gone, just to grin in JFK's face. My son. He was a brave boy, a good boy. Still is.
"And then, what happens? In comes Spider-Man, taking the attention, commanding the spotlight, stealing my son's glory. I could not abide that, Robbie. I would not abide that...not ever. Even when that glory-hogging itch of a webslinger sabotaged John's capsule..."
"The evidence shows quite the contrary, Jonah–"
"I said, even when he sabotaged it! Even then, I hit him in the morning heads. It worked. Instead of being this big, hero-saving glory-hog, Spider-Man gets to be the person people kind of wonder about. Kind of begin to doubt. I did my job, and I did it well, Robbie. No matter how many times our paths have crossed since then, this paper always gives me the upper hand over Spider-Man. It always will.
"There's another...layer...of course, to the argument. About a year or two after we started the editorials, the coverage, I had to admit to myself that there was a bit of me that was, for lack of a better word, jealous. Robbie, I make almost a million dollars a year, before taxes. Whoever that kid is behind that mask, I can bet he's nowhere near the same income bracket. I can talk with government officials from the White House on down to the local police precinct, and I have. I can tell the man in the street what to believe, feed him the information I want, and make him my puppet, to a certain degree. My name is known, Robbie. I am a power in this city.
"But I can't go out there and punch a crook in the jaw. I can't lift boulders on my back, or fly through the air, or even swing through it on the end of a web. Kids don't join the J. Jonah Jameson Fan Club. They join that, whatever it is, Merry Marvel Marching Society crap. For everything...for everything I am, I am only a mortal man."
Jameson was quiet for a long time. Robertson finally spoke up. "I'd hazard a guess that, behind all the powers, Spider-Man is, too, sir."
"Of course he is! Of course he is, dammit! But what did you just say, Robbie? 'Behind the powers.' That's it. The powers. That's what makes him different from you and me and the president and the Pope and Joe Schmo down at the corner newsstand. He can...he can do things, Robbie. I've seen him. You've seen him. We've both seen him crawl up walls and spin webs and lift great weights and jump great spans, and...all the stuff he does. We both know him probably as well as anyone in this city that doesn't wear a union suit in public.
"For all we are, we'll never be like him. Not in the least. There's over a score of them out there now, Robbie. And almost a score of villains, for every one of them. And what are we? Are we the Greek audiences for the plays about the gods? Are we listening with fear to the Voice from the mountain? Or are we just...too insignificant to count?
"I could never accept that, Robbie, even if I suspected it might be true. So I had to...I had to use the Bugle as a weapon. If anything could bring him down, and maybe the others after him, the Bugle could do it. If those idiots are the next step in human evolution, we'll let them know that the last step isn't going without a fight. So, yes. I'm jealous of him. But I think I have a right to be."
Jameson put the cigar in his cut-glass ashtray. He decided he didn't want to be waving it around anymore and getting ashes on the carpet. He leaned against the edge of the desk and looked up at Robbie Robertson again. "There's more. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, Jonah," sighed Robbie. "I'm sure there's more."
"The most important reason of all, Robbie. Because of this." Jameson waved his hand at the window. Nothing abnormal was in view, but Robertson knew. His boss was taking in the entirety of this tormented country in that wave. Jonah was probably near the end of his soliloquy.
"Thirty years ago, Robbie. Thirty years ago, we almost did it to ourselves. There were a few of those 'mystery-men' running around, but outside of Sub-Mariner and the Human Torch, they didn't seem to amount to a lot. They didn't have the power this new crew has. Now...my God. Every week, it seems like New York is London during the Blitz. So far, not too many lives have been lost, but we've been riding that hope for eleven years now. The hope may have already run out.
"Do you know why I called Galactus a hoax, Robbie? Because I knew he wasn't. Yes. I knew there was a thirty-foot-tall man on top of the Baxter Building, about to destroy the world. So did a lot of people. The entire city, maybe the entire nation, was on the verge of panic for three days. Sure, the Fantastic Four fixed things up, or so they said. Hell, he came back again and they did their number again. But...to the common man, Robbie, to the man in the street...what must he think of such happenings, of such beings? To know that there's something beyond all of our ken, something, unlike God, that you can see and hear and maybe even touch...that destiny might not be in the hands of the human race, after all?"
"Seems like the human race did okay that time, if you count Reed Richards as human," said Robbie. "Sorry to interrupt."
"Yeah, well...Richards pulled it out of the fire that time. But most men aren't Reed Richards, Robbie. When I was younger, my wife dragged me to a play, can't remember the writer...thing about a doll's house. The bit was, the analogy he made is that we may all be like dolls in a doll house, with forces, God, whatever, moving us around without our volition, maybe without us even knowing about it. Galactus...great God, he made me feel like I was living in a doll's house.
"And if I felt that way, how many million other people felt the same way? So I had to scoff at it, Robbie. I had to ridicule it. I had to make believe that Galactus was the boogeyman, that if we opened the closet door and turned on the light, he'd go away. And he did. He came back, but he went away again. He left us alone, to go back to our wars, our nuclear weapons, our race haters on all sides, our crummy politicians and two-bit hacks and...all the stuff that makes life worth living. Up against Galactus, that didn't look so bad.
"I heard from people, Robbie. I heard from people who thanked me for that editorial. They didn't want to believe in Galactus, either. Some of them said they did believe, but they were glad I gave them a reason to disbelieve. We got back to work. We all got back to work. We had to. We were better off with an unseen God than somebody who sits on top of a building and wants to eat the world.
"If I resisted the super-types and their world long enough, maybe things would right themselves. Maybe they'd go back to being the way they were in the Fifties. But I always feared this, Robbie. Power against power. Every conflict building on the last one. Like gang wars in Chicago, but with atomic blasts instead of machine gun bullets. Men with power beyond human ken, and nothing but their own conscience to curb them, taking action at least once a month. Were they saving the world, or endangering it in another way? I don't know. I don't know.
"But this is what I always feared. The day it was wound up too tight, and popped in all our faces. The battle there was no coming back from. Not Armaggeddon.
"Gotterdammerung.
"So. Tell me, Robbie. Tell me, please. Was I wrong to fear them? Was I wrong to speak against them? Do you know?"
Robbie Robertson sank into a chair, shaded his eyes with both hands, and finally spoke very slowly to his boss.
"I can only give you an answer to your last question, Jonah. And the answer, as honestly as I can put it is: I don't know. I just don't know."
Jonah looked at the man he had trusted for over six years, and waited before speaking.
"Want to go home, Robbie? We might be able to put the evening sheet to bed early."
"No," said Robertson. "The thing isn't nearly ready. Besides, I'm holding back till the last minute. It's like Kennedy in '63 here. Whatever we put out, it's going to be outmoded in a minute."
Jonah snorted for a laugh. "Think I might be able to blame this on that consarned irresponsible Spider-Man?"
Robbie smiled. "If you can't, I won't believe it's really you."
The publisher of the Daily Bugle picked up his cigar, put it in his mouth, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up the morning edition of the paper from the desk behind him. "Get out there and get to it, or get your resume in an envelope. We've got a paper to publish."
Smiling, Robbie Robertson left.
-M-
The Cathedral was as silent as death, and Captain America had a feeling that was all too appropriate.
He had been raised a Lutheran, not a Catholic, but he didn't count any house of God alien to himself. Even when overseas, in the temples of Buddhists or Muslims, he respected the traditions of those foreign to him. Steve Rogers was never loath to bend the knee to his own God, whether in church or out of it. There was good reason for there to be no atheists in a foxhole, and Steve had been in one foxhole or another for all of his adult life.
The note he received promised that his friends would be killed outright if police were detected on the scene. So he came alone, as wary as if he were entering a house held by the Nazis. In a very real sense, it was.
Cap affixed a rope to one of the handgrips of his shield, whirled the great three-colored disk in the air by the rope, and then threw it, letting the rope pass through his hands quickly. The shield crashed through what he hoped was the most replaceable window in an upper story. He didn't believe he had much chance of taking his foe unawares, but neither did he believe in just walking over the front door welcome mat.
A couple of quick tugs with his red-gloved hands indicated that the shield had found purchase. Cap set his boots against the outer wall of the cathedral and scaled it, knowing he was making himself visible to passers-by, knowing that he had to do whatever he did with quickness, and knowing that, so far, all the cards were in his enemy's favor.
But that was hardly an odd occurrence.
This war had gone on between them long after the conflict that spawned them. Even while both of them slept, other men had put on their faces and continued the fight. When Captain America came back to life in 1964, he had hoped his old foe was as dead as his Fuhrer. But a year later, Cap had to deal with the three Sleepers his enemy had created. And a year after that...
...well, he learned that some things were fated to follow him.
The three-colored hero pulled himself over the window's edge, carefully, beating down the jagged edges of glass with his gauntlets first. The room was an upper study. Cap breathed shallowly, as noiselessly as he could, and looked about the site for traps. None were obvious, but none would be. He took his shield in hand, undid the rope, and opened the door, pushing the shield out first. Nothing struck it. Tentatively, silently, he ventured forth.
There was nothing in the hall, nothing in the upper rooms that seemed out of the ordinary. Cap descended a stairway, turned a bend in it, and stopped short.
A priest lay, face up, dead on the stairs. His arms were splayed out behind him, thankfully not arranged in a cruciform position. His face was horror enough.
The flesh on it was shriveled to what appeared to be only a micron's thickness of covering over the bone.
And it was colored a deep, bloody, ghastly red.
Captain America took a long breath. A corpse was hardly enough to horrify him. He'd seen his share of them, and more, in the war. But this obscenity, this desecration, was beyond even his tolerance. Even his enemy had, to his knowledge, never taken the life of a man of God.
Until now.
Carefully, Cap stepped over the corpse, not disturbing it. There was no telling whether or not the enemy had secreted a pressure-triggered bomb underneath the priest's body. He descended the rest of the stairs, to another hall.
The site of a nun in the same condition as the priest made him gag.
Fighting back his nausea, the sentinel of liberty continued on, guessing that his foe's sense of theatrics would make the main hall their place of battle. But every step of the journey had to be scrutinized for traps.
When the doors to the place of worship were in view, he heard organ music. A tune that was all too familiar.
Chopin's Death March.
There was no time for subtleties anymore. Cap smashed through the doors, shield foremost, and looked upon the scene before him in horror.
Beaten bloody, hung by their arms from the ceiling by chains, but still alive, the Falcon and Sharon Carter were visible on the walls near the pulpit. First Sharon, then Falc, turned bruised faces towards him. Their feet were at least ten feet above the floor, and their arms showed the strain.
The organ was playing without anyone seated at it.
Cap charged forward, knowing his enemy would have to show himself or risk letting Cap free one of his friends. The enemy did not disappoint.
A smoke bomb exploded before him. Cap whisked his shield before him like a fan, dissipating it as fast as he could. But he heard the familiar, gutteral sounds of a voice he'd come to know as well as his own, beyond it.
"This must be the last time, Hauptmann Amerika. For both of us, this must be the very last."
It was all too pat that the sight of a mirthlessly grinning crimson skull appeared before him even before the billows of smoke were dispersed very much.
Captain America and the Red Skull lunged at each other, with deadly intent.
-M-
Gary Gilbert made the last checkups on his Firebrand armor and decided, as much as he held the play of super-villain against super-hero in disdain, there was still something to be said for the way one felt when in costume. Especially in a metal costume.
With a long sigh, he made up his mind. He walked to the airplane, swung himself inside the cockpit, closed the hatch, secured it, made a last-minute check of all systems, and fired up the engine. Of course, he hardly needed the plane to fly. He needed it to carry cargo.
He needed it to start the Fire.
To be continued...