Part 26
by DarkMark
"Hello, Mr. Premier? This is the president. Of the United States."
"Bojemoi! Of course I know what you are president of. What is happening, Mr. President?"
"Well, uh, Mr. Premier, I wanted to let you know that there is a rogue super-being, and I do emphasize the word rogue, we don't have any control or authority over him whatsoever, he is not even an American, he's a rogue..."
"Mr. President. Please."
"All right, sir. What it, uh, what it amounts to is that this rogue, this, uh, Silver Surfer, he's, uh, headed in a general northeasterly direction from the United States now, as far as we can track him, and, uh..."
"And what, Mr. President?"
"And he's headed your way, Mr. Premier."
"WHAT?"
"Please, sir. We've got SHIELD on this right now."
"SHIELD? Better I should have Yuri Brevlov's department deal with him! You cannot even keep your Heli-Carrier afloat!"
"Mr. Premier, uh, that was a very low, low blow."
"[Expletive deleted] your mother! What are we supposed to do when he gets here?"
"Well, Mr. Premier, we hope you'll be able to destroy him. We'll help."
"You'll help."
"Exactly, Mr. Premier."
"With what?"
"Well, with whatever you can throw at him."
"Do you expect us to use nuclear weapons on one man?"
"It might not be such a bad idea, Mr. Premier."
"This is insanity, Mr. President!"
"I hate to say it, Mr. Premier, but the way things have been going for the last two weeks, it seems like business as usual."
"Not here, it is not! Where are your American super-heroes? Why are they not protecting us from this rogue threat?"
"Well, uh, I tried to get them, Mr. Premier, but, uh, as you might know, they're kind of tied up right now. And, uh, some of the people tying them up are the Titanium Man, the Red Ghost, the Unicorn, the Crimson Dynamo..."
"If you find any of those diabolical counter-revolutionist slacker defectors, you can have them, Mr. President! But this is not our doing."
"I'm, uh, glad to hear that, Mr. Premier. Very glad. And as you, uh, know, this Silver Surfer isn't our doing."
"This is a great relief to me. Is this being capable of destroying Moscow?"
"I, uh, suppose so, Mr. Premier. Depending on what kind of mood he was in, I understand."
"Oh."
"Is that a positive or a negative 'oh', Mr. Premier."
"That 'oh' signifies that I have had enough, Mr. President. You will stop this being, before he gets to Moscow, or we will stop him ourselves. And we will not be held responsible for collateral damage which may be done in the defense of the Motherland. Is that clear, Mr. President?"
"Crystal clear, Mr. Premier. And, uh, as soon as we can, uh, free up some super-heroes over here, we'll send them over there to deal with it."
"How long will that take?"
"...Regrettably, Mr. Premier, it might take a good long while."
-M-
The Hulk was hard enough to control on the Earth plane. Dr. Strange always had his doubts on how his green ally would be when he pulled him through sub-space dimensions. But, thankfully, the incredible being had seen enough sights in space and in other worlds to be somewhat used to it by now.
The sorceror was surrounded by a glowing force-field, behind which, towed like skiiers on ropes, Clea, the Hulk, and the injured Sub-Mariner, who had flatly insisted on coming, kept up. This was the only way to reach the Surfer in time, before he attacked Russia and possibly started a nuclear war.
"Hulk not understand," grumbled the goliath. "Why we have to fight surf-man? Isn't he friend?"
"Yes, Hulk," said Dr. Strange, patiently. "But he is being controlled by another mind, now. He isn't in possession of his own faculties."
"Huh?"
"Hulk, my friend," the Sub-Mariner said, his injured arm encased in a metallic exoskeletal device, "do you remember the time in which we fought?"
"Which time was that?"
"About four years ago. When you didn't know why you were doing what you were doing?"
"Oh. That time. Hulk remembers. Hulk thinks so, anyway."
"Good. Well, this is like that time for the Surfer. Someone else is telling him what to do. He cannot resist them, anymore than you could resist your controller, back then. I, too, know what it feels to be in such a state, for I was once under such command, myself. We have to restrain our comrade Surfer, so that Dr. Strange may free him."
"What 'restrain' mean, anyway?"
Clea said, "It means you and Namor have to hold him, Hulk, while Stephen and I try and free his mind."
"Okay. Does that mean Hulk smashes him?"
Namor sighed. "If necessary. We want to cure him, not destroy him."
"Then Hulk will only smash him once."
"Sound idea," added Dr. Strange, dourly. "Prepare yourselves. We enter the Earth-plane...now!"
-M-
It was no small thing to command the mind of a herald of Galactus. But this was no small power controlling the Silver Surfer, indeed.
Though the Puppet Master didn't know it, his mastery was being backed independently by Mentallo, a telepathic mutant and ex-foe of SHIELD. Gary Gilbert feared that even Philip Masters's power wouldn't be equal to the task, so he put the problem before the Mad Thinker and got the answer within seconds. Mentallo had been easy enough to track down, and needed money, to boot. He didn't mind work-for-hire.
Still, even while the skyrider of the spaceways soared over the Atlantic in another's thrall, he fought. He fought within himself for control of himself. He could still not break the hold of the puppeteer, and he seethed, knowing it. But Norrin Radd hadn't given up even before Mephisto, and he wasn't about to start it now.
Altogether, though, he feared he might break free too late.
He knew the damage he had done to property on America's East Coast, the injuries he had caused, though, thankfully, he had been responsible for no deaths. But he was not sure he could hold himself back from worse destruction than that, when he arrived at the Soviet Union.
The ones who controlled him wanted him to raze the land before him until he reached a cache of nuclear bombs, and to set them off.
That, he could not allow. He would even sacrifice his own existence, to prevent it.
But he did not know he could prevent it.
The shores of Europe loomed before the Surfer now, in the distance. He would reach the landmass, even at his relatively slow speed, within minutes. And then...
...but before then, a hole opened in the air itself and four Defenders emerged from it before him.
The Surfer, thanking his Creator, involuntarily lifted his hands and set off a bolt of the Power Cosmic.
The bolt struck the Hulk in the chest, staggering him but not downing him. He roared and began to fall towards the sea, but Dr. Strange, muttering a spell, engaged him in a harness of magical energy that bore him aloft. "Remember, Hulk, stop him, don't injure him!" called the magician.
"RrrrrARRGHHH!" replied the Hulk, approximately. He adjusted to his new aerial status in record time without thinking of it, leaped to the Surfer's vicinity, and uncorked a massive right that sent the silver-skinned hero back over a hundred yards.
The Sub-Mariner plunged into the depths, felt the renewing power of sea water, and emerged like a missle from an atomic sub. His one good fist was held upright, and he caught the volplaning Surfer under the chin with it. "IMPERIUS REX!" he shouted, resolutely.
The Surfer, not much damaged, righted himself, grasped Namor, and threw him into the sky.
"Clea, we have trouble," declared Dr. Strange.
"You are gifted with understatement, Stephen," replied Clea.
The Hulk closed with his former ally again and began assaulting the Surfer with tremendous punches and hammer-blows. In response, the Surfer battled back, both with staggering blows that hurt the Hulk and with power-blasts that seared, scarred, and buffeted him. No matter how many times the Hulk was knocked back, he picked himself up, figuratively speaking, and charged back in. Unless you could kill him or knock him out, you couldn't stop him.
The Surfer didn't intend to knock him out.
Clea, anticipating his actions, began chanting an improvised spell.
"As the Faltine's Flames do burn
And Nameless Ones do mutely cry,
So baffle now the Surfer's bolts
And thus confuse his watchful eye!"
The silver-skinned hand that pointed at the Hulk should have tagged him with a blast so powerful it could penetrate to the very magma beneath the Earth's mantle. Instead, it veered to the left of him, continued on till it struck one of the Austrian Alps, and created some interesting new geography there.
Taking advantage of the situation, the Hulk hit him. It was probably the best decision all around.
While the Surfer was still reeling from that, the Sub-Mariner dropped from the skies, good arm leading, and smashed him down from above. Both of them vanished below the waves. The Hulk turned to Dr. Strange. "Fish-man get surf-man good, huh?"
"I would not count overmuch on that, Hulk—"
Water geysered up and Namor came flying from it, propelled by a burst of silver power. The Surfer, riding his board, followed.
Dr. Strange threw himself into the fray. From his hands, there erupted mystic energies of binding force. These bonds, forged by the power of Cyttorak, served to restrain the Surfer for a few seconds. With that bought time, Strange unleashed the power of his amulet.
"Namor! Hulk! Pin his arms! Hold him...hold him..." barked Strange. Somehow, without questioning, the two obeyed. The Surfer, snarling like a rabid dog, began to make his body glow with terrible force. Sub-Mariner and the Hulk both reacted with pain. But they held tight.
The light of the Eye of Agomotto bored deep into Norrin Radd's mind.
Dr. Strange had taken such journeys more than once in his life, most notably when he had to pry the secret of Eternity loose from a comatose Ancient One. This, perhaps, was less strenuous than that battle, but not by much. He sensed the control overwhelming the Surfer's mind, knew the command to chaos it was imposing, but seemed unable, just by a tad, to pry it loose. He drove the power of the Eye on further, seeking to penetrate to the rational, supremely humanist mind that was the Surfer's own when unfettered.
He felt the presence of Clea beside him, reinforcing him, reassuring him. It eased his burden slightly, but he put his mental and emotional might behind his Eye all the more. This was a fight that had to be won.
"Strange!" The voice was Namor's. "Strange, we can hold him no longer!"
"Namor," said the magician in a weary voice, "you must."
And then came the presence of another in Strange's mind, though how it got there he was powerless to explain. It was not the essence of an enemy, thank the Vishanti. It had power, of a purely telepathic sort.
Dr. Strange. Let us help.>
The telepathic voice was unknown to him. Who are you?> he asked.
James Murray, of the ESP Division of SHIELD. Let us help you with the Surfer.>
I accept,> replied Strange, who would have accepted help from any shy of the dread Dormammu at the moment.
He felt the power of another agency buoying him, as if an aide de combat was picking him up from the battlefield and infusing him with new vitality. True, it would be difficult, like lifting an automobile from the ground and turning it on its top. But it could be done.
It must be done.
And, in the words of the Tibetans, it would be done.
The Hulk was roaring something. The Sub-Mariner was screaming something. Even Clea was shouting words of concern at him.
None of that mattered now. Nothing mattered except what he was doing now. Driving a micron-thin stream of mental / mystic energy beneath the control shield of whoever dominated the Silver Surfer...
...spreading a disk of thin, hard power beneath it...
...then, wrenching up with all one's might...
...
NORRIN RADD, AWAKEN!>
...
"Who has done this to me? By the stars and galaxies in their courses, WHO HAS DONE THIS TO ME?"
Dr. Strange opened his eyes.
The Silver Surfer, held in a rough crucifix position by the Sub-Mariner and Hulk, both of whom showed severe burns on their bodies, looked angry, and surprised, but not insane.
"Surfer," said Dr. Strange, almost exhausted, feeling Clea's arms under his armpits, holding him from falling into the ocean. "You were...dominated..."
The scion of the spaceways turned his head, gently, both ways, to see the injured Hulk and Namor. "I...caused you this pain?"
Even the Hulk couldn't make a sound.
The Surfer's body glowed anew, but not with destructive power this time. Instead, he used the Power Cosmic to touch the bodies of his friends, and to render them healed. The greenish flesh of the Hulk and the pinkish body of Namor were regenerated within seconds, the injury from heat, deadly radiation, and cosmic force gone.
The two were healed.
Namor's eyes widened even further. He released the Surfer's arm, then used his own uncovered hand to tear and rip at the metal bindings holding in place the reinforcing prosthetics over his other arm. With a great flex of muscle power, the metal covering exploded. The Sub-Mariner rotated his arm, flexed it, doubled it and straightened it repeatedly. There was no pain.
"You healed it," said Namor to the Surfer.
"I could do no less, my friend," said the alien.
The Hulk finally spoke. "Hulk better now. Surf-man better, too?"
"Very much better, Hulk. And thank you for my liberation. You, Namor, Strange, and Clea. You have my eternal gratitude, and the debt of the Silver Surfer."
"I had help," said Stephen Strange, trying to rally. "SHIELD."
"Stephen," said Clea, pointing to the skies. "Look."
From one direction, American fighter planes were approaching. From another, Russian MIGs were doing the same. Evidently, nobody was hedging their bets as to whether the Defenders would succeed or not. Given the legal status of the Hulk, Surfer, and Namor, the chance that the planes might attack was uncomfortably high.
Dr. Strange wearily raised his hands for a transport spell.
"Do not trouble yourself, Strange," said the Surfer, and raised his own gleaming hand.
With one flash of white light that almost blinded the pilots of the closest planes, the Defenders were gone.
That left the American and Russian jet jockeys wondering just what in the hell to tell their home bases, as a result.
-M-
Both of the special aircraft the X-Men were using were extremely fast. That went without saying. But they still weren't the first ones on the scene, and Cyclops didn't expect them to be. Their FBI liaison, Amos Fred Duncan, had been contacted by phone and asked to check on the Xavier Mansion.
When the two X-craft landed on the field just outside the mansion, they could see the FBI and emergency vehicles around the house, and the roadblocks that kept civilians out of the area. Nobody had to speak about the bad vibes they were getting from the scene. Nonetheless, Marvel Girl dug her fingers into Cyclops's arm as the two of them debarked from the plane.
Scott and Jean were flanked by Iceman, Beast, Angel, Mimic, Magnetica, Havok, and Banshee. The nine of them waited for a long moment, watching the cops approach them.
"Should we go in now?" asked Mimic.
"Wait till the FBI escorts us," said Cyclops.
"No way," Magnetica said, and sauntered towards the mansion herself.
"Lor—Magnetica, stop!" called Havok, authoritatively. She didn't. Havok ran after her. That was it. The remainder of both X-Men teams surged forward. To their credit, the FBI guys didn't wave guns to try and stop them.
One of the Feds did show them a badge. "Ladies, gentlemen, please. I'm Agent Carey. Mr. Duncan has asked me to have you wait out here for a moment, if you will."
"Tell Agent Duncan," said the Beast in a reasonable tone, "that we appreciate his solicitude, and you tried valiantly to hold the line, in the manner of Horatius at the bridge." He reached out his huge hands, grasped the man around the middle, and set him to the side. The other eight followed him in a rough wedge formation.
They got as far as the foyer when a voice most of them knew called, "Hold it. Right there."
Banshee raised his yellow-gloved hand. "Agent Duncan. 'Tis fair meetin' ya, sir."
"Likewise, Banshee," said Duncan, quietly. The agent was a 50-something, balding blonde man in a brown suit. Professor Xavier had made contact with him back in 1962, and had opened Project Mutant with him, the program that led to the recruitment of the X-Men. From that time to this, he had been a sympathizer with their cause and their official government liaison. But he didn't look very upbeat today. None of the nine mutants seemed to want to ask why.
Havok took the lead. "Mr. Duncan. Please, tell us."
Duncan took a long breath. "Perhaps the ladies would like to sit down first."
"Perhaps the ladies wouldn't!" burst out Marvel Girl. "Tell us right now! What's happened to the professor?"
With a grim expression, Duncan motioned them into the next room. They followed him.
The lot of them stopped as soon as they filed through the doorway. Jean's hand went to her mouth. Cyclops's mouth dropped open. Havok looked as though someone had run a cat-of-nine-tails across his back. Lorna Dane dropped to her knees. The others had individual reactions of much the same timbre.
Within the room were several lab techs and FBI cops, interrupted in whatever scientific or criminological duties they had been undertaking. They didn't matter, to the X-Men. What did matter were the two forms under dropcloths on the floor, and the wheelchair, which was on its side with one wheel practically demolished.
There were bloodstains on the floor near the shrouded forms.
Duncan spoke quietly. "Apparently Professor Xavier admitted him without resistance. Apparently. It must have gone quickly, very, very quickly. The Professor..."
"Stop it!" Jean shrieked, clenching her hands into fists.
"Jean," said Cyclops, and took her from behind by the shoulders. "I..."
Iceman broke the silence. "Go on, Agent Duncan."
The agent drew a deep breath. "Professor Xavier took it through the heart. It was a spoke from his own wheelchair. The other one is Erik Magnus Lensherr, alias Magneto. From what we can tell without an autopsy, he died from a cerebral hemorrhage. Death for both of them must have been instantaneous, or damned near it.
"That's all I can say. My friends...I'm very sorry."
One of the other agents on the scene cleared his throat. "Ah, Mr. Duncan..."
"Yes, Lyle. I have to tell you all that you must wait in the other areas of the mansion. We don't want the scene any more contaminated than it is now."
Mimic spoke up, almost in rage. "To hell with that! To hell with you! That's the Professor, my God, that's the Professor, and we're..."
"Mimic, SHUT UP." Havok whirled on his teammate and nailed him with his eyes. Cal Rankin's mouth opened, but no words came from it. After a couple of seconds, he stopped trying and sagged there. The Banshee touched him on the shoulders, maintaining his own silence.
Without saying a word, Cyclops and Havok, taking Jean and Lorna with them, left the room and the others followed. There was only one place to go that would serve. It was soundproofed and shielded from the rest of the mansion, and without its deadly devices being activated, it was just another very large room.
Havok keyed in the proper sequence of numbers to open the door to the Danger Room, and all nine of them went in. The Beast closed the door after them.
As soon as it was locked, each of them, individually, broke down in tears.
-M-
Dr. Doom looked upon his work, and saw that it was good.
Everywhere, as the smoke lifted, he saw testimonies to his handiwork. Pieces of competitors. Pieces of enemies. A few high-tech items which briefly intrigued him, such as the disconnected end of one of Dr. Octopus's metal arms. From what he could see, the gambit had been successful. That meant everything.
But the bodies of the accursed Four had to be found. Nothing less would do. If need be, he'd take blood samples from every inch of this field, type them with his own equipment in Latveria, and verify the deaths of Richards, his wife, John Storm, and Benjamin Grimm.
Nothing less would do. Richards, the usurper, the man who had undoubtedly altered his flawless figurings that day in the past, the very day he tried to use his Communications Chair to contact the next world.
The very day it had blown up, and scarred the face of Victor Von Doom beyond repair.
That had begun their deadly rivalry, which had lasted more than thirty years. But now, Doom was triumphant. His very persistence, his unbending will of iron, and his superior intellect had brought him to this point. Not only had he destroyed Richards and his crew, but the irritant Daredevil, who had thwarted him twice before–once, even, when Doom had used Ovoid technology to switch bodies with him—and the woman known as the Black Widow, plus the Inhumans, who were allies to the Four and thus needs be dealt with. The deaths of the so-called Frightful Four and Sinister Six were only collateral benefits. It amused Doom that the American military had done some of the work for him, in that regard.
From this point, he could devote himself to reaping the benefits of the chaos wrought in America for himself. It would be a simple thing to find Gilbert and eliminate him. With the West in his hands, the East would not be far behind.
The triumph should have been complete.
But, for some unknown reason, Doom thought he sensed someone watching him.
-M-
"He killed my daddy! He killed my daddy!"
"Franklin," said Agatha Harkness, not terribly convincingly, as Franklin Richards tried to grasp the TV set with both of his short arms.
"He killed my daddy, and my mommy, and Uncle Johnny, an'...an' uncle Ben! I'm gonna kill him, Miss Agatha! I'm gonna kill HIM!"
On the screen, Franklin saw the face of Dr. Doom, caught in a chance shot from wherever the camera was, filling the screen. The cloaked and armored man seemed to be smiling.
The fury and anguish in Franklin's soul were a dormant H-Bomb, and Doom's smile seemed to be the trigger to ignite it.
A strange thing occurred. Franklin seemed to feel his being extending from his body into the TV set, running along the path of transmission back to its source, and ending at the battle site being pictured, all at the speed of light, or near it.
He didn't resist it a bit.
-M-
The breeze blowing in from the West was not enough to billow away the smoke from the explosion. Doom raised his metal-covered hands, intending to use powerful exhaust blowers to disperse it.
Before he started, he was occupied with something else. Literally.
A presence in his body and brain, inserted there without his bidding it, without his perceiving its entry, and without mercy.
Doom gasped. His hands went to his throat, trying to loosen the armor there. His very body was expanding, pressing against the padded metal that was his refuge and shield. He tried to release the catches that would free him of the constricting armor, but his hands would not obey. They were too ponderous and slow.
His mind was still intact.
Despite himself, he knew terror.
That was only an instant before meat and matter exploded through the eye- and nose-slits in Doom's armor, through his mouth, through whatever minute openings there were in his metal suit. With it came blood. Lots of it.
The entire process took only a few seconds. When it was done, not much remained within the armor except liquid and bone fragments. The metal was very hot to the touch.
The great armored suit swayed, tipped over backwards, and fell with a great clang.
It stayed there, unmoving.
It remained there as a host of figures emerged from the smoke. One of them burst into flame, commanded the smoke with his own power, and dispersed it, for the most part. After he had done it, he regretted it.
Reed and Sue Richards and Ben Grimm stood beside the Torch. Seeing what was on the ground, Sue covered her eyes and leaned against Reed. Johnny Storm had trouble keeping himself from vomiting. He managed to control himself, then said, "Is that...him?"
"It can't be anyone else," said Reed. "I knew he'd have a hand in this, somehow."
"Maybe it's a robot," breathed the Torch. "Or an android. Or..."
"Or, nothin'," said the Thing. "I smelled enough corpses in the War, Torchy. I know the scent. That's a dead body. That's Dr. Doom."
Others gathered beside them. Daredevil, the Black Widow, Black Bolt, Crystal, Karnak, Gorgon, Medusa, and Triton. "That's him, then?" said Daredevil, noting with his Radar Sense and other enhanced senses that yes, there were pieces of a human body inside the armor, and no, they couldn't be put back together again. "He was behind this all?"
Medusa shielded Crystal's eyes. Gorgon said, "We Inhumans never faced him. But from what Reed Richards has told us, from the pictures we have seen in your media, this can be no other. Is the war finished, now?"
Reed shook his head. "I don't know, Gorgon. We still can't say whether Doom was behind this entire operation, or just taking advantage of it. The only thing we can say with certainty is that he paid for participation with his life."
"Bojemoi," breathed the Black Widow. "Even in Russia, the name of Dr. Doom was known and feared."
Triton said, "One mystery, at least, we can solve. What is it that made you shield us with your force field, an instant before the blast, Mrs. Richards?"
Without taking her face from Reed's chest, Sue mumbled, "There was a voice in my mind. It sounded like Agatha Harkness. It told me to put the shields up, and I did. I didn't...have a chance...to..."
"To shield the others," finished Medusa.
"Medusa, take me away," begged Crystal.
"As soon as we may, sister," said Medusa. "As soon as we may."
Karnak shook his head. "So much death, paid for by the death of one man. Even if that man is Doom, the scales are hardly balanced."
"Got news for ya, short stuff," the Thing answered. "In a war, they ain't never balanced."
Reed took a communicator wafer from his belt, found it still functional, and put in a call to the White House. He reported only as much as he had to. The person on the other end asked him to remain there until FEMA personnel arrived.
The heroes, who were the only survivors, took themselves to a part of the field where there was less death than the rest of it, and waited.
-M-
It didn't take long, objectively, for Franklin Richards to return from the place he had just been. It was like he'd seen his Daddy do so many times: stretching out, then pulling back. He half-perceived some of the darkness and odd patterns on the way back, but ignored them as much as he could. They were unsettling.
Then he was seeing out of his own eyes again, feeling his own body around him, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his nose buried against the television set. Mom hated it when he did that, and always made him get a paper towel and Windex to clean it off.
Franklin didn't mind that, now. At least he knew his mom was okay, and would come back home.
Miss Agatha was standing beside him. He looked up at her. She stared down at him, impassively, waiting for a response.
"Aunt Agatha," he said. "I saw Mommy, Daddy, Uncle Johnny, and uncle Ben. They're all right!"
"Very good, child," said Agatha.
"But...I did something. The bad man who tried to kill Mommy and Daddy...I..."
"You killed him, Franklin," said Agatha, soothingly. "You just killed him."
"Yeah," said Franklin, wonderingly. Then he said, "Did I do good?"
She took him in her arms. "You did very good, Franklin," she said. "Very, very good indeed."
-M-
Nick Fury and his top squad were in the New Jersey SHIELD office, in a shimmed-up version of the ESP Chamber. Not much of the brain-amplifying equipment could be brought there from the fallen Heli-Carrier, and only two psychics remained: Jim Murray and Carla Casteel. The third, Jacob LeBrun, had been rendered comatose from the Carrier's crash. Thankfully, the two remaining ones had been able to get aid to Dr. Strange when he needed it most.
Murray, reclining on a lounger seat with a complex apparatus over his cranium and eyes, spoke. "They've disappeared. I can't track them anymore."
"Disappeared?" Fury lit a match with the end of his thumb and applied it to a cold cheroot in his mouth. "Explain, Murray."
"Dr. Strange was going to use his magic to take them somewhere else," said Murray. "Instead, the Silver Surfer used his power. They don't appear to be anywhere I can sense them."
Val said, "What about you, Casteel? What's your perception?"
The redhaired woman, lying on another seat behind Murray, said, "I concur, Agent de Fontaine. All parties involved vanished from our scan capacity. We know that Strange and the Surfer can jump between dimensions, so they must've done that."
"A feat you, yourself, achieved during the Yellow Claw case, sir, with the aid of the transportation vest," Sitwell put in.
"Thanks for noticin', Jasp," answered Fury. "Okay, you two, off of that. Can you still get a line on Iron Man, if you have to?"
"I'd say roger that," Murray reported. "But we don't do probes on him, just telepathy."
"That's all I want," said Fury. "Right now, I want both of ya to fan out as far as ya can over the country, and track Gary Gilbert. Once you find him, and you will find him, believe it, ya tell me, and ya tell Iron Man, in that order. Understood?"
"Understood, colonel," said Murray.
"Agreed," said Casteel.
"Me, I got somethin' to do," Fury said, and zipped up his neoprene suit from chest to neck.
Gabe Jones, watching, said, "Where you going, Nick?"
Fury smiled. "Got a little time to myself. Think I'll have a little fun."
-M-
Archie McCown and Ake Harmon were more than a little jittery in private these days, but they played it cool when they were dealing with AIM's supply men. The hatbox-headed guys had invited the two revolutionaries to a safe house for the weapons deal the two had requested. Archie and Ake were relieved to know that the delivery had already been made. AIM had that much confidence in their ability to pay.
With as much nonchalance as he could muster, Ake, in shades, handed over a suitcase full of cash. The AIM squad commander took it, scanned the locks with a hand-held device, popped it open, rifled through the bills, and shut it again. "Good," he nodded. "Good."
"Pleasure doin' business with ya," said Archie. "Man, if we'd known about you a few years earlier, the Revolution would'a been on the rails with a lot less trouble."
"AIM aims to please," said the guy in the yellow suit. It was hard to tell if he said it with a straight face, as most of his face was covered and not much of his eyes could be seen behind the grillwork in his helmet-mask.
Ake smiled, inwardly. No matter how many times Advanced Idea Mechanics hatched plots to smash SHIELD and conquer the world, at base, they were merchants. If you needed something, all you had to do was come up with the appropriate cash and AIM would build it for you. If it could be built.
Right now, the two of them had paid for another cache of weapons like the one that had taken down that pig SHIELD agent in New York. The guns they'd bought were already in the hands of revos in Washington State. They'd supplied their brothers in California, Texas, and Michigan already, and Florida was champing at the bit. But until Gary forwarded them some more money, or until the brothers down in Gatorland came up with their own cash, that was going to have to wait.
The main thing was, the pig was gonna die. If these AIMers didn't know they were part of the pig, that was their never-mind. Ake Harmon watched out for himself first, and the Revolution second. These box-headed mercenaries were selling them the bullets with which to equip their own firing squad. Well, it wasn't quite Lenin, but it'd work in a pinch.
"Come again, when you need more," said the commander. "We have more."
"We'll keep that in mind," said Archie.
He had more to say than that. But he was interrupted by an explosion.
The door, which had been reinforced with titanium steel, was blown off its freaking hinges. The ten AIM guys within, plus Archie and Ake, scattered from the impact. The door imbedded itself partway into the opposite wall.
A guy with an eyepatch, wearing a black skin-tight suit, vaulted into the room. He was armed, he looked old and Establishment, and Archie thought he seemed like the type who could take on the whole Green Bay Packers lineup and come out on top.
"Fury," snapped one AIM guy, bringing his weapon to bear. "Kill him."
The guy called Fury let off a round that hit the chest of the guy who'd just given the order. It sent off blue-white sparks where it touched him. The AIM agent cried out, jerking spasmodically, and dropped, first to his knees, then on his face. Ake thought the honky in the eyepatch had some kind of stun-gun. That was all right. Ake had a gun of the more conventional kind.
Another AIM guy grabbed something from a pouch in his uniform and threw it at Fury. Archie had seen a demonstration of it before. It was a fast-hardening gel that would wrap itself around any target it struck and solidify within instants, preventing its quarry from moving. On its present trajectory, it was headed straight for Fury's noggin.
But Fury simply held up his wrist, triggered some kind of mechanism in a wrist-band he wore, and started something humming. The goo splattered across an unseen something that looked as flat and wide in diameter as a pizza pan, and stayed there, forming what amounted to a shield on Fury's arm. Ake thought of Captain America. That was before Fury hit the floor, rolled, kicked the attacker solidly in the chest, probably broke something there, and sent him down. The AIM agent wasn't coming up after that for a long time.
Ake had grown up watching Gunsmoke and had gotten his first gun at age 12. He'd practiced a quick draw with it from then till now, and he was pretty confident in his ability to outspeed anybody he faced when he slapped leather. Not that many people he faced were ready for such a confrontation, but it still made him feel like Matt Dillon or Paladin when he did it. He whipped out the .38 he carried just for insurance and was sure he could tag Captain Eyepatch with it.
Captain Eyepatch did a trick shot around his own side and shot the gun out of Ake's hand. Even as he grabbed his mitt in pain and swore a blue streak, Ake had to admire the guy's ability. If they won this bit and the honky mofo was still alive, he was gonna make the guy show him just how he did that thing.
Fury faced three AIM agents in a row, all of whom had their blasters out. He pulled what looked like a truncheon from his weapons vest, yanked out both ends of it, and extended it to a weapon over three feet long. This he slammed against the upper chests of all three men, knocking them back against the wall. From there, he used the rod like Little John used his staff in a Robin Hood flick, cracking the yellow-suited guys upside their helmeted heads or jamming it hard into their bellies. The threesome weren't able to fight after Fury was done with them.
That left five other AIM agents, plus Ake and Archie. Archie was hiding behind a desk. The other AIM men had finally got presence of mind enough to lay down a barrage of fire in Fury's direction. Fury ducked and rolled again, grabbed one of the fallen AIM men, and used him as a human shield. The guy took the projectiles meant for Fury and died seconds afterward.
In the meantime, Fury took another thing from his weapons vest. It looked round and had an indented place in one area. Fury thumbed that, pitched it at the ceiling, saw it bounce off and head for the AIM quintet, and ducked behind his shield of fallen bad guys.
The impact grenade blasted all five AIM men into dreamland.
Nick Fury stood up, his back to both Ake and Archie, and took off his weapons vest in leisurely fashion. Archie, wearing soft-soled shoes, began creeping towards the door. "Ah-ah," said Nick, not turning around.
Archie froze.
Ake stood up. "Okay, man. Tell me who the hell you are, and what the hell business you got crashin' our party."
Slowly, the man turned. "Nick Fury. Colonel. Agent A-1 of SHIELD. How's that for starters, buttercup?"
"Fury. Oh, god," whispered Archie. "Ake. We gotta get out of here."
Weighing the balance of fighting the legendary head of SHIELD, trying to flee, or staying where he was, Ake decided to try and flee. Let Eyepatch be satisfied with Archie. Ake jumped over a fallen chair and sprinted for the doorway. He'd outrun enough cops, bullies, drug dealers, and dogs when he was growing up, and if he couldn't make one damn doorway, Ake was gonna turn in his Keds.
A black-clad arm grabbed him by the back of his coat and slammed him against the wall. Fury was in Ake's face, and he didn't look happy. "I took my weapons off," said Nick. "Wanna take your best shot?"
Ake tried to bring up his knee.
Archie was watching, but he still couldn't see what happened fast enough. All he knew was that Ake cried out in pain, and flew from one side of the room to the opposite wall, where he crashed and slid down it, unconscious.
Now Eyepatch Guy was turning towards Archie. Everything in McCown's head told his legs to run.
"Don't run," said Fury.
"Wouldn't think of it," Archie assured him.
"You're gonna tell me where those shipments of AIM weapons been goin',"
said Fury, casually.
"You've got that info, right?"
"I—"
Archie found himself slammed up against the wall, with both of Fury's hands holding him up by the collar and the man's face so close to him he could smell his sweat. He tried closing his eyes, turning his head away from that face, but he couldn't manage it.
"Lissen, you," said Fury, in cold tones. "I got a man in sick bay who almost got his arm cut off because of one of those guns you brokered. He almost died. He ain't outta the woods yet. Think that makes me feel good about you? Answer me, Junior!"
"N-no," gasped Archie. "No!"
"Well. Sounds like we're ready to communicate, kid. Talk!"
"You mean, you mean, about this one?"
"Good as any place to start."
"It. Uh. It went to Seattle."
"Where in Seattle?"
"I think to the SAVI guys. I don't know. We just paid for it."
"I want more!" Fury roared at him while pressing him harder against the wall.
"I haven't got any more!" Archie was about to wet himself. "Gilbert gave us the money. That's all I know. Gilbert gave us the money."
"Gary Gilbert?"
"Yeah. Gary Gilbert. Look, I'm sorry, man."
"Oh, I can tell that. I can tell you're so damn sorry about supplyin' weapons that can wipe out a whole police force to a buncha nuts who wanna smash America. I can just see how bad you feel about givin' somebody the gun that damn near killed Clay Quatermain. And you know what I'm gonna do about that, buddy? Do you know what I'm gonna do about that?"
Archie squeaked, "What?"
He was spared from knowing the answer by a strange buzz from Fury's wristband.
"'Scuse me," said Fury. He let Archie fall down the wall, planted his boot on his chest to make sure he didn't go anywhere, and opened the communicator on his wristband. "Fury."
"Colonel," came the voice of Jasper Sitwell. "They've tracked Gilbert. Or at least we think they've tracked him."
"Where?"
Sitwell told him. After a second's pause, Fury said, "Tell the president. Get SHIELD jets in the air now. I want that scumbag brought down before he goes another mile."
"Yes, sir."
"But tell Iron Man first."
"I think he may know already, sir."
"What?"
"The ESPers tracked Iron Man in the same general area."
"Great. Scramble those jets. I'll be there in a minute. Out." Fury closed the connection. Then he buried his hand in Archie's shirtfront and yanked him onto his feet. "Come with me," he said.
Archie had no intention of disobeying. "How'd you find out where we were?" he said as he followed Fury.
"We're SHIELD."
"Oh." Archie paused. "You, uh, thought we were important enough for you to come after yourself?"
"Hell, no. This was just recreation."
-M-
As a man of science, Iron Man didn't particularly prefer getting messages by telepathy. But there were sometimes when it just couldn't be avoided.
Attention, Iron Man,> came the voice in his mind. This is James Murray of SHIELD's ESP Division. I have information.>
Go ahead,> responded Iron Man. But keep out of my brain, otherwise.>
Understood, sir,> came the response. We've tracked Gary Gilbert in your vicinity.>
Where?>
The ESPer gave Iron Man a mental fix on the location. It was better than an electronic map readout. The tracking devices in his armor were leading him towards the sort of plane Gilbert had supplied from AIM, but the SHIELD group concreted the info.
Thanks,> thought Iron Man. Can you help?>
Negative,> sent Murray. We can sense him, but he's too far out of range to do anything else.>
Wish me luck, then,> Iron Man replied. I'm going in.>
Godspeed, sir,> sent Murray, tensely. Godspeed.>
The golden Avenger corrected his course just a bit, poured more power into his jets, and trained his sensors on the target somewhere before him.
It was time to jump into the fire.
To be continued...