Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx
Chapter 19: More Vignettes Than Usual
The wilds of Argentine Patagonia, a week before the sinking of the Azure.
It was no easy thing to chase a man over a mountain. Lieutenant Slade Wilson and his team had hiked eight miles uphill since breaking camp. Fortunately, August was the end of winter in Argentina, and the hills were still white with the slush of half-melted snow, leaving a trail for his team to follow. The jail guards, their competition for the hunt, had neither the skills nor the gear to follow the trail and had fallen behind hours ago. However, the team was concerned that they had yet to catch up to their target. They were seasoned soldiers dressed to hike. He was a huge man in a business suit carrying another grown man like a ragdoll and still outpacing them. Worse, the sun was setting.
Lieutenant Wilson's team traversed a cliff over a lush valley painted pink and gold with the evening sun. They could see wild horses in the meadow far below. Sound carried far across a valley like this, so the team heard the big engines before they saw the trucks. Six long trucks raced into the valley. It was the Argentine Army. Their camouflage paint was a giveaway, though there weren't many groups in this part of Argentina who owned six trucks. Perhaps a few mining firms, but the dozens of men who exited the trucks were too well-armed to be miners. If they were here, they'd be sending forces to every other valley to lock the region down. Wilson ordered his men away from the cliff so the fading sun wouldn't illuminate their silhouettes.
Their path soon turned away from the valley and into a craggy decline. The rocks here had acted like curtains against the season's snows, and many patches were almost dry. In minutes, they ran out of footprints. Wilson judged that they had another hour of useful light. They could survive the night on these peaks if they set up camp, but that would leave them sitting ducks if the Army came their way. Otherwise, they could give up the hunt and climb down to warmer altitudes before dusk, then march through the night to escape.
Wilson held up a fist, and they all stopped. "We don't know how far we are from this guy and blue squad must have missed him at the crossing, but we're finally on a downhill, so we might see him at a distance. We split up here. Pick a direction. Head down as fast as you can. If you find him, take him out." His three men looked at each other uneasily. Their first rule when hunting unnatural targets was to work as a team. Wilson answered the unspoken complaint. "We've seen his type put down with small arms, and he didn't show any tricks with remote awareness, precognition, speed, or accuracy. You know the drill. Don't approach until he's four five past dead. If you find Trevor and he can walk, take the kid with you. If not, put him out of his misery. Either way, break off twenty minutes before nightfall. Make your way back to Point Bravo by midnight tomorrow. Move."
The four took different angles down the uneven slope and lost sight of each other. Lieutenant Wilson galloped down the mountain at a skidding lope, kicking lines of dust and pebbles with every step. He entered a copse of dead pines and nearly tripped over a sharp cliff hidden in the trees. Wilson stopped and looked for a way down. Suddenly, he saw an odd shape against the cliff face. It was in shadow, but he was sure it had moved. Wilson dropped prone and crawled to the edge. He watched through his binoculars. The shape moved again. It came out of the shadow thirty feet below, and he saw it was a man carrying what appeared to be a long bundle under one arm. The man hung to the cliff face with his feet and one hand for several seconds, then he released, dropped a forearm's length, and caught another handhold. This one-handed descent was plodding and awkward but still an incredible feat of athleticism.
Wilson unslung his weapon and loaded a magazine as quietly as possible. He had expected the violent part of this mission to happen indoors, so he had ordered his team that only their sharpshooter should bring a heavy rifle. The rest traveled light. This was the opposite of his usual habit, but he knew they might have to cross the wilderness to make their escape, a prediction that had proven almost correct, though he only wished he was making his escape. Instead of some proper artillery, he was carrying a prototype Winchester carbine. Thirty caliber, fifteen round magazine, just under six pounds loaded. It was an impressive piece of firepower for such a feather-light package, but it didn't have the punch he preferred against the supernatural.
He waited while the big man approached the ground. Wilson inched forward and pointed his carbine over the cliff edge, aiming nearly straight down. He would only have a moment before the target disappeared into the tree line below. The big man dropped the last few yards and landed on his feet. He stretched his limbs, adjusted his grip on the bundle, and set off.
Before his second step, Wilson fired. The round struck the big man high in the back. He stumbled and dropped his bundle. The big man started to turn, and Wilson fired again. Another hit, somewhere on the torso. The big man was holding a submachine gun on a sling, but he seemed unable to find where the shots were coming from. Wilson fired twice more. The big man buckled, losing his footing and landing on his side in a scramble. Wilson fired eleven more shots, pulling the trigger nearly once a second. He replaced the magazine with its spare in a practiced motion, aimed down the sights, and waited. He aimed motionless for ten seconds. It seemed like a year, but he had the discipline of an expert. He wouldn't rush.
The body didn't move. Wilson finally reslung his carbine and started to climb down the cliff. Hanging from the cliff face in the dim, he thought he heard the echoes of voices down the mountain. With the right conditions, the noise of one gunshot could travel miles. He had fired fifteen. He climbed faster.
When he arrived, the bundle was kneeling beside the big man's body. Wilson readied his carbine again and slowly approached.
The bundle spoke, "H-he's dead."
Wilson saw that the bundle was Captain Steve Trevor wrapped in an enormous suit coat. The coat had clearly belonged to the man in the dust, who was even bigger than he appeared from a distance, almost seven feet tall. And without a coat, his extreme physique couldn't be missed. He had limbs like a gorilla, his shoulders and biceps half again as large as any strongman. His broad chest tapered considerably to his waist, which was still too wide for a common belt. At least he made an easy target.
"Slade? That you?"
Wilson stopped inspecting the body and looked at Trevor. "Hey. Ready to move?"
Trevor gradually stood. Even in the fading light, he looked starved and pale. The big coat slid off one shoulder, and under it he only wore a thin gray prison outfit and soft-soled shoes. Wilson had assumed the coat was to keep Trevor from slipping out of the big man's grasp, but it must have doubled as a blanket. It had done a poor job.
"Not sure how f-far I can get tonight. Can we bivouac here?"
Wilson shook his head. "Can't do that."
"Then what's the plan?"
"I'm sorry, Steve. I wanted to get you home. I really tried."
"Huh?"
"Figured I owed you from Jamara. We'd be square."
"You don't owe me anything."
Here." Wilson dug a small tin box out of a pocket and tossed it at Steve's feet.
Steve picked it up. "What's this?"
"The Argentines are coming up that hill. I don't know what you've spilled already, but my orders are to plug you before you spill anymore."
"Plug me? Hey, I -"
"It's cyanide, Steve. We can do this another way, but I thought you'd like the choice. They say it's quick."
"Well when you p-put it that way." Steve shrugged the huge coat off his other shoulder. Under the coat, he was holding a pistol pointed at Wilson's ribs.
Wilson's eyes went wide and he started to turn his carbine, but Steve already had him dead to rights. "Don't try it, buddy." Steve straightened his arm. "Don't even blink."
Wilson slowly slung his carbine and raised his hands. He nodded at the huge corpse. "Courtesy of our friend here?"
"Yep."
"What are you going to do, Steve? You can't make it out on foot. They're going to find you again. And if you shoot me, they're going to hear it and find you faster."
Steve exhaled and saw his own breath. He was very cold. "I know."
"Forget the danger to your country. If you go back with them, you're just going to die in some pit. Is that what you want?"
Steve shrugged. "I might die. But I'm not dead yet. And you know what?"
"What?"
"I really like being alive. And I realize now that I've got a lot to live for."
"Okay?"
"So thank you, Slade. I don't know what this bucko had planned for me, but I bet it wasn't fun."
"You don't-"
"There's one thing I need to mention. I heard the three of them when they threw me in their car. They tried to speak Spanish to each other, but they weren't any good. One kept slipping in "nein" and "ja" and other bits of German. Waller might like to know."
"Thanks." Wilson responded dryly.
"Don't mention it. Now drop your little rifle and go. I don't want you sniping me."
"I can't leave this behind. It's a prototype."
"Then take out the bolt."
"I-"
Steve tilted his arm a few degrees and fired. Wilson covered his ears. There were yells from down the mountain. Steve gestured for him to hurry up. Wilson dutifully pocketed the round from the carbine's chamber, took out its bolt, and threw it into the trees. Steve fired again. Wilson turned and ran. Steve fired once more in Wilson's direction, then he shivered and wrapped himself in the big coat.
When they captured him again, he would have a difficult time explaining this.
Gotham City. Four days before the sinking of the Azure.
Avery Cotter was a gaunt man in a ragged fleece coat and dirty boots. He still looked like a steelworker, but these days he was President of United Shipwrights, Coilers, and Undersea Welders League Lodge 77, more commonly known as Gotham City's Shipbuilders Union. Shipbuilding had been the city's most famous industry since rioters demolished the stock exchange in 1930, and it employed seventy thousand residents. Avery Cotter could stop that massive enterprise with a snap of his fingers. People treated him with respect.
And if Cotter's position didn't demand enough respect, folks were certain he was in with the Four Families. The connection was nearly axiomatic: gangsters cut deals with labor leaders, gangsters shipped contraband, so gangsters must know labor leaders involved in shipping. During Prohibition, the District Attorney put away five presidents of the Dockworkers Union in a row. But folks were wrong: Avery Cotter had never met anyone in organized crime. Shipping and shipbuilding were two different industries, and the Families had never dealt with the labor side of shipbuilding. Too big. Too conspicuous. That was back in the day, and now they were rich enough to side with management.
Still, Carmine Falcone could invite Avery Cotter to lunch with a twenty second phone call. The Chart House was a restaurant on the old boardwalk, a block from the Lodge 77 offices. Two of Falcone's senior men sat at the table, and bodyguards were obvious near the exits. Cotter had come alone. There was no sense of intimidation in the arrangement. Falcone wasn't some crook; meeting him was like meeting the President. The President wouldn't muscle a civilian in public. He wouldn't pull a gun on his guests. That was understood.
Both had found it occasionally useful to lie about their assumed friendship, but they made an odd pair. Falcone was impeccable in his pinstriped suit, a red rose in his lapel. Cotter walked in looked like he was starting a shift at the assembly line.. Like most gangsters, Falcone was the product of rough, blue-collar stock, and he wondered whether Cotter still dressed like a working man as a political prop or because he still saw himself as one. Falcone sat reading a newspaper opened to an article titled 'TASK FORCE DROPS HERO COP – SCANDAL AFOOT?' when he saw Cotter was finished his pat-down. Falcone stood and they shook hands.
Cotter asked, "What can I do for you, Mr. Falcone? Boss boys uptown constipated about something?"
Falcone smiled. He was a silent partner in several major shipyards, and their boards occasionally asked him to intervene in labor disputes. He always declined. The Shipbuilders would be a powerful enemy, and it would jeopardize his relationships with other unions. Of course, Falcone had still prepared for such a day.
"Mr. Cotter, I'm here on behalf of the Mayor's office. I'll like to talk about our civic duty."
"You're kidding."
"Rarely. And not today."
Cotter sipped his just-arrived beer. "You're here about that destroyer contract."
Falcone nodded. "Your people elected a shrewd man." His thumb twitched and he tapped his knuckles on the table.
Cotter eyed this twitch suspiciously. "Please don't flatter, Mr. Falcone. What's your angle here?"
"At the last round of negotiations, you demanded an extra twenty cents an hour for all skilled tradesmen."
"That's not all. We demanded new gloves and welding masks, plus an extra break every six-hour shift-"
"I'm sure. But the wage increase was the center of the dispute?"
"True. They wouldn't budge, so we walked away. You better bet we won't work any new navel yard contracts until we get some consideration."
"Mr. Cotter, twenty cents an hour sounds very ambitious." His hand twitched.
"Listen. We ain't stupid. We remember the last time Washington geared up for war. They signed the orders, so we opened our doors, trained up an army of shipwrights, put them to work. Saved the world. Then those gov'ment boys make peace, and what'a you know? No new contracts. Zilch business. We have no choice but to kick our new recruits out the door; couldn't even afford to throw them a party. Wars don't last, Mr. Falcone, but people get their lives set up in such a way, it hurts to knock 'em down again. I say that's not how we do it. So this time, if we're going to expand again for Uncle Sam, we have to save up for lean days, see? We look after our own."
Falcone glanced at one of his silent companions and folded his hands. The covered hand twitched again. "I respect your attitude, Mr. Cotter. I truly do."
"Yeah? Good."
"Though if war does come, and you continue to drive a hard bargain, the government may nationalize your shipyards. They would say you wage, and you would lose what bargaining position you enjoy. Wouldn't it be safer to compromise now and keep your place at the table?"
Cotter crossed his arms. "Let 'em try."
"I see." Falcone sounded mildly disappointed. He studied his menu.
Cotter scoffed. "Not hardly."
Falcone's men shifted, and their boss looked up in surprise. "Hmm?"
"Come on, Mr. Falcone, I know you have something more to say, and I hate dancing. What's your pitch?"
"Simple. The board offered you a three-cent raise. I happen to know they'll settle for seven. Some of your union friends already want the deal at three. Deliver them seven and you'll win the vote. Take the offer."
"Seven cents? Ain't happening. I got principles here."
Falcone gave a thin smile. "Yes? Is that what your wife thinks?"
"Huh?"
"Or should I say, wives?"
Cotter had the sudden expression of a pole-vaulter whose pole had snapped. "I-"
Falcone's eye twitched. He seized his fork with more force than necessary. "A lesser man would deny it."
"You-"
"You hate dancing, Mr. Cotter, so here we are. Many years ago, you visit Star City for a wedding. During the festivities, you meet a flower of a girl named Edna Hausp, daughter of a tailor. Drinks flow, the two of you are carried away by the moment, and you happen to meet a radical pastor at a party. You and Edna are wed in holy matrimony, and the only other witnesses to your vows are a barkeep and a taxi driver. The next morning, you sober up and run like a coward."
Cotter ran his tongue across his teeth: a nervous tic. "How do you know?"
"The barkeep who saw your ceremony worked for a friend of mine. It's a good story, and I have a reputation for rewarding anyone who can bring me good stories about important people. I heard yours the day you stepped in as your Lodge's junior treasurer. In fact, I've made some quiet efforts to smooth your rise to the high office you now occupy. Little things only. Consider it on the house."
"Suppose I do deny it."
Falcone held his arms up in languid disregard, still clutching the fork. "I could march out the pastor or the witnesses, but that's an ugly method. You ran just after the wedding, so there was never a license. Was little Ms. Hausp ever Mrs. Cotter? This is a question for lawyers. The real danger is to your reputation and the strength of your current marriage. As a bachelor, back in Gotham, you meet your dear Gretta and propose to her in the proper way. But you don't take chances. Before you have your next wedding, you start sending Edna a bit of each paycheck to buy her silence. Now her bank account offers a compelling testament. Whether your nuptials were complete in the eyes of God or the state, this payoff certainly makes it look like she was special to you."
"You dare blackmail me?"
"If I ..." Falcone paused. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he stabbed the fork into the table deep enough to stand on its own. Then he started rubbing his hands like he was washing them.
Avery Cotter stared in mute surprise. Falcone's two men rushed to their boss, shaking his shoulder and muttering. Then Falcone blinked and stood up, bumping the table. He rubbed his eyes.
Cotter pointed at him. "Hey! What just happened here? Buddy, you need a doctor or something?"
One of Faclone's men whispered in his boss's ear and tried to guide him away. Falcone stayed long enough to tell his guest, "Mr. Cotter, you have one day to choose. We won't meet again. Goodbye."
Falcone's entourage tried to make a dignified exit. Back in his limousine, he ordered a quick ride home. His senior men entered their own limousine behind Falcone's. They wouldn't talk about the meeting here. The driver had only worked for them six years, and loose lips were fatal. But when they were alone with other trusted men, the pair would have much to discuss.
This was the Don's second case of fits this week. Carmine Falcone gave an impression so strong and controlled, so permanent, that even his closest circle was unnerved to see him ill. Worse, he refused to talk about his tremors. In theory, if a boss lived long enough to grow senile, young upstarts would oust him. But Falcone wasn't feeble. In most ways, his mind was sharper than ever, and he had led his empire so well, there was no faction who wanted him gone. His authority was absolute. But the condition could start to impair his mind in other ways. Perhaps it already had. What could they do?
As they worried in the back of their limousine, they didn't notice the road sign funneling traffic into a tunnel. Sudden detours were common in Gotham, so the driver didn't bother announcing the fact. Traffic slowed to a crawl. Near the middle of the tunnel, a police officer standing on the sidewalk saw Falcone's convoy. The two limousines and a support car were easy to spot. He knocked on a maintenance door in the tunnel wall. It opened and six more police officers poured onto the sidewalk. The seven officers jogged through the stalled traffic and surrounded the convoy. They started blowing whistles and banging on the doors of the limousines.
The first limo driver rolled down his window enough to speak through and barked, "Hey, do you know who-" But he was interrupted when the officer drew his sidearm and stuck it through the gap. Similar threats were made across the convoy. Three large men tried to get out of the support car, but the officers quickly shoved them to the pavement at gunpoint.
Car horns started to blare at the frozen convoy, and a few intrepid drivers tried to navigate around. One officer was almost sideswiped. If the squad was impatient before, now they were furious. Finally, Carmine Falcone opened his door. But before he could speak or step out, two officers dragged Falcone onto the pavement, then together they picked Falcone up and set off at a near run. The rest of the officers followed in an arrow formation. They made it to the maintenance door and disappeared. The entire incident, from the first whistle blow to the shutting of the door took under a minute.
One hour later, in an undisclosed federal building.
Admiral Bernard Cornwell and Amanda Waller stood in front of the translucent side of a two-way mirror. Carmine Falcone sat at a table in the well-lit room beyond.
Cornwell appraised Falcone. "Well, that was easier than I expected."
Waller responded, "Basic fieldcraft Admiral. Though we did get lucky."
"How?"
"His escort could've seen this as another Valentine's Day Massacre and fought back."
"That's an old gang, Amanda. Perhaps they've lost the touch."
"Must be. We're lucky the driver rolled down that window."
"You think they bulletproofed the cars?"
"Absolutely. We didn't have a plan if the real cops arrived."
"Say, where did your boys get those costumes so quickly anyhow?"
"Would you believe there are places in Gotham where they sell them on the street?"
Cornwell paused to consider this. "That's horrifying."
Waller nodded. "I'd be lying if I said I cared two bits about that city, but I am curious to see what houses of cards will collapse now that we snatched their king out of the deck."
"Do you try to talk poetic like that or does it come naturally?"
"I have my moments."
"And you're sure you want me to go through the deal we made after today?"
"Better he doesn't suspect you were involved in the abduction. As far I can tell, he has no motive besides the obvious in wanting Arturo Bertinelli out of the country. And if it's an excuse to set up the destroyer deal in his backyard, he's set to profit handsomely. Sometimes a gangster is just a gangster."
"We'll see."
In the bright room beyond, they watched the door open. A man in a suit almost as nice as Falcone's entered. Falcone looked at him idly. The man took a seat across the table.
"Carmine Falcone, you can call me Agent Faraday."
"An agent of which agency, sir?"
"Department of Justice."
"Am I under arrest, Agent Faraday? No one has spoken to me."
"You are in our custody."
"Ah. This is going to be that sort of conversation."
"Mr. Falcone, let's get down to brass tacks. We know you have an arrangement with parties in the military to inform on espionage activities by operatives of German intelligence. I need to know who has been supplying you with this information."
"If you know I have an arrangement with the military, Agent Faraday, you also know I have an agreement with them as well as your own Justice Department to not answer that question."
Faraday gestured amicably. "Yes, legally you are correct. I work for an office that disagrees with the limitations of these promises. Legally, our hands our tied. Legally, we can't follow our mandate to act in accordance with the best interests of national security. Legally, we have to announce all citizens taken into custody within a day, and you'd have a right to see an attorney."
Falcone make an expression of sudden understanding. "Just as you can't legally impersonate officers of the Gotham City Police Department."
Faraday snapped his fingers like an approving tutor. "Now you're getting the hang of it. We'll be happy to let you go if you answer my questions."
"And may I presume, Agent Faraday, that once released, if I bring a grievance for this custody to the Justice Department, they will have never heard of your office or you personally?"
"That's a good guess. Now, Carmine, you recently passed along information about a German spy codenamed Der Wehrwolf. You're not leaving this table until you tell me how you know about this spy and why you believed you knew their location."
"So until I answer, I'm not leaving this table?"
"Nope."
"Hm."
In a moment, Falcone's features twitched, his eyelids went slack, and he slipped to the floor. Agent Faraday sped around the table and stood over Falcone's limp body. He felt for a pulse and yelled, "I need a doctor in here!"
Across the two-way mirror, Admiral Cornwell and Amanda Waller watched with disappointment.
Meanwhile, in the home of Admiral Bernard Cornwell in Falls Church, Virginia.
Mary Franklin had been Admiral Cornwell's housemaid and cook for several years. The Admiral believed that Mary was polite and deferential and performed her tasks in a minimally-satisfactory fashion, which he assumed was all she was capable of. He had never married, deciding long ago that the sea would be his wife, but he thought any bride should behave essentially the same way, freeing him from domestic cares so he could focus on the sea. Having Mary was like being married without the hassle, and he treated her with a sort of fond apathy. The Admiral never worried about leaving the home in her care.
Mary worked to earn that trust because she liked her job best when the Admiral wasn't home. He was a tidy man, so she could usually complete a day's chores in two or three hours, but to justify her paycheck, she had to make it look like six. That was made possible by the Admiral's utter indifference, but it took some acting. When he was gone, she didn't even need to act.
Mary was relaxing in the Admiral's leather armchair, eating a bowl of his peanuts and reading the works of Plato from his library when she heard a knock at the front door. She rushed to hide the peanuts and brushed down the creases on her skirt. When she opened the door, she found a mustachioed white man in a suit who leaned on a cane he was too young to need. He opened his mouth to speak, but when he saw her, he froze.
Mary was still getting over the shock of a guest and didn't think much of it. "Can I help you?"
The young man closed his mouth and seemed to ponder something. He had a roughneck's strong hands, but he was awfully pale unlike any white boy who worked with his hands in the Virginia sun. Finally, he doffed his hat and got to business.
"Afternoon, ma'am. M'name's Malone, and I'm an investigator with the United States Secret Service." He spoke quickly and paused only to hand her a folded paper. "This here's a warrant to search these premises. Is the owner home?"
Mary shook her head. "No, suh."
"Okay, then." Malone walked into the home uninvited. "I trust you are employed here?"
"Yes, I am. What is this all about, Mr. Malone?"
"'I've reason to suspect your employer of perpetratin' several crimes which I am not at liberty to disclose to anyone but himself. Now kindly follow me, ma'am." He limped ahead on his cane.
She followed behind him while reading the warrant. "Pardon me, but don't law enforcers tend to deliver warrants in pairs?"
"They do tend that, ma'am. Regrettably, we are short-staffed at present, and my partner has been called away on other matters. Now, does this house have an office or study where the owner keeps his work?"
"Yes, indeed. It's right down this corridor."
Mary led the investigator to the Admiral's study. "Here it is, Mr. Malone, though I daresay the Admiral does much of his work at the Navy station. You may want to try there instead."
Malone "Oh, I know what he does there, ma'am. I'll ask you to take your leave elsewhere in the home while I perform a search here. Once I'm done, I won't bother you further."
Mary curtseyed and closed the door behind her. She trusted this stranger about as far as she could throw him. Her first instinct was to call the police, but then she remembered that wasn't necessary. The Admiral lived in a sheltered suburb on base, and it maintained a neighborhood watch that was nosier than a rhinoplasty convention. No doubt half the cul-de-sac was already making inquiries with the Admiral's secretary as to why an unfamiliar vehicle was visiting while he was away. The last time, a pushy door-to-door salesman had tried something similar and was escorted to the state line.
Mary sat in the next room and listened to Mr. Malone shuffling folders and opening drawers. She knew the Admiral kept his most secretive papers in the floor safe, and even she didn't know the combination, so at least the man couldn't do much harm. A few minutes later, she heard another knock at the front door. There was no reaction from the study. Mary went to open the door. Outside were four masters-at-arms, sailors who acted as the Navy's police. Their expression showed that they didn't take kindly to intruders in the homes of admirals.
The senior sailor spoke, "Ms. Franklin, we heard tell a stranger entered the home?"
"Yes, Petty Officer Grove, do come in. He says he's with the United States Secret Service, a tall man with a cane, here on account on a warrant to search Admiral Cornwell's papers."
The sailors frowned at each other. Petty Officer Grove spoke, "We'll just see about that, ma'am."
"He's in the study if you gentlemen would like to discuss the matter."
"That would be a kindness, ma'am."
Mary led them to the door of the study. One of the sailors tried the knob, but it was locked. He hit the door with his fist, "Naval security, open up in there!" There was no response inside, nor any noise. They called out twice more, but no luck. Finally, they kicked open the door.
The study was empty. Mary entered and searched in disbelief. "He was right here, I swear."
One of the sailors noticed something odd at the window and inspected it. The latch was undone. It swung freely when he pressed on a pane. "Seems awful limber for a guy with a cane." They heard an engine start at the curb outside.
Ten minutes later, Bruce Wayne pulled off his fake mustache and brown wig. He was driving on a back road well outside the naval base. His legs ached terribly, and his spine burned. He was gratified to learn that he could still walk quickly and resolved to never do it again. Bruce felt his coat pocket. Inside was a slim, sophisticated camera. On its film were shots of documents describing several curious programs, among them an Operation Underworld.
Four days later in the South Atlantic, two minutes after the sinking of the Azure.
Diana woke in complete darkness with an odd tightness in his chest. Her skin felt moist and her head hurt. It took several moments to realize that she was underwater. It took another moment to realize that she wasn't breathing, her mouth and throat were full of water. She panicked. She thrashed.
Then out of the darkness, a hazy dot of light swam into her peripheral vision. Diana turned to face it. It glowed like an indistinct star in the endless murk. She swam to it with hollow limbs. As she approached, another dot glowed beyond, growing from a pinprick to a bead to a bulb. Then a third dot appeared, further still. Diana's vision faded, but when she pulled a final stroke toward this last dot, the world cracked over her head.
Air! She was still in the near-dark save for the faintest lights in the water below, but now her head and shoulders were heavy and her eyes stung and she could hear echoes of herself and she could breathe. Diana coughed and coughed, expelling a cup of seawater with a force that made her ribs hurt. She took deep, greedy breaths. As her wits began to return, Diana realized she had no idea where she was. She took another deep breath, sunk into the water, awkwardly spun, and with a flash of groovy subaquatic technicolor light, Wonder Woman kicked again to the surface. She took her golden cord and willed it to light. Holding a bend of the cord above her like a candle, Wonder Woman saw a riveted metal hull above her. She was still aboard the ship. But the hull was slanted at an impossible angle. Either gravity had changed, or the Azure was nearly vertical. Realizing that most of the ship was underneath her gave her a rush of vertigo. Looking around, Wonder Woman saw that even her weak light could reach the edge of this air pocket. It was four yards across at the widest. Except for a few bits of floating trash, she was alone.
Then she heard a grand and powerful voice, "Diana!"
Wonder Woman flinched, splashing. "Great Hera!"
"Yes! She is great indeed!" The marvelous voice echoed in her little pocket of air, seeming to sound from all directions at once.
Wonder Woman tried to look around. "Who speaks?"
"Hark! It is I, Poseidon: lord of the seas and all the living beasts therein. And also earthquakes. And horses."
Wonder Woman smiled uncomfortably. Some Olympians were venerated as patrons of the Amazons. Others were feared as ancient threats. Others were just odd. Poseidon fell somewhere between the last two camps.
She finally said, "Hail, Lord Poseidon. By what honor dost thou come?"
"Hail, child! I bring ill tidings. Your craft has been sunk! As we speak, it lowers swiftly to the briny depths. You should leave!"
"But I don't know where to go."
"Fear not! For I have bid a disciple to aid you. He has caused a school of glowing fish to guide your path to safety, much as the first of their number led you to your current respite."
"Glowing fish? You have granted me this miracle?"
"Not so! They are natural creatures who live in the deepest seas. What is against their nature is swimming so near the surface. Such strain will surely kill them, and soon!"
"Oh." Wonder Woman nodded to nothing in particular. "Then I am humbled by the sacrifice of your subjects, Lord Poseidon."
"Think nothing of it, child! Fish die all the time. Now horses! Those are sacred creatures. Do you like horses?"
"Yes."
"A triumph! And here comes your royal escort to the surface. Farewell, Diana of the Amazons."
"Farewell, Lord Poseidon. You have my gratitude."
Wonder Woman heard nothing more, but she saw a beautiful circle begin to glow beneath her treading feet. She took a tremendous breath and dived. Through the gray haze, she watched the circle transform into an arrow. She crawled down through the water to catch it, but it shimmied just out of reach, moving ahead. It tucked and bent, moving through what she faintly recognized as a staircase, then out a porthole. Then suddenly there was twilight – an awesome oppressive monochrome horizon stretching out to infinity – she was in the ocean, many hundreds of feet under the waves. Wonder Woman had another bout of vertigo, and now she began to feel burning in her lungs.
She felt motion on her back and glanced around. For just a moment, she watched a black metal hulk the size of a building slipping past her in silence. Her glowing arrow was now pointing upward, but she didn't need the help. Wonder Woman set her muscles to the task and willed herself toward the light.
Minutes passed. Finally, she broke free into the waves and breeze of the Atlantic. This was less reviving her first new breath in the hold of the sinking ship, but it was a more diverse sensation, with the rich sounds and smells of the green ocean. Wonder Woman felt the sun on her face and realized she was chilly. The water was calm, and she could see that a collection of flotsam: crates and barrels and planks and tools and more miscellany. She swam to a large crate and climbed atop. It bobbed but held her weight.
Wonder Woman looked around. Her heart sank at the devastation. What had happened?
She heard a familiar voice call behind her. "Diana?"
Wonder Woman turned. Far away in the cluster of flotsam, she spied First Mate Zhang sitting on part of a radio mast. "Zhang!" she called back. Wonder Woman dived into the water and quickly swam over to him. She could see another two sailors sitting on the mast. One wasn't moving. She climbed up next to them.
"Hello. Are you okay?"
Zhang smiled at her but his eyes were forlorn. "For the moment, yes, but I'm afraid this is it. I am sorry, Diana."
"What do you mean?"
"I envy your innocence, girl. We are not so far to the trade lanes, but it is not likely we will see another ship in the few days before we expire of thirst or the sun."
"Which way is the nearest land?"
The other moving sailor pointed. "Oeste. Casi ciento setenta kilometros."
Zhang began to translate but Wonder Woman interrupted. "I understood. West. 170 kilometers. Let's do it."
Zhang looked confused. "Do what?"
"Here." Wonder Woman unwrapped a length of her golden cord and handed it to Zhang. "Tie it to something sturdy and hold on."
"Diana, have you been drinking sea water?"
"Yes, but we will need fresh water soon. I must be swift." She tied the other end of the cord around her waist and dived into the ocean.
Zhang asked, "Where did you get this?"
Wonder Woman called over her shoulder. "A gift from my mother. Am I going the right way?"
Zhang realized that as she swam, their small platform was gradually moving. The lady had to be the strongest swimmer on the planet. He shouted back. "Yes, you are going west. But this is foolish. Come back and save your strength."
She called back, "After we get to Brazil."
Zhang had no response to this. Tragedy could drive people to madness. He hoped she would stop before she was too tired."
After a minute, the other sailor asked, "Cuando recibiste un segundo, uh, outfit?"
Zhang agreed. "Yes, you've been wearing just the one for the entire voyage. And don't you find it difficult to swim in a metal shirt?"
Wonder Woman called back, "It fits me well. I don't find it difficult."
She swam for another ten minutes. They saw no other survivors and left the flotsam behind. Now it was empty sea all around. Diana rolled over and started to backstroke. "What happened to the Azure? I was in the hold when it sank, and I don't remember the moment."
The other sailor answered, "Una gran explosion. Boom!"
Wonder Woman frowned. "Do ships often explode? I didn't realize sea travel was so dangerous."
Zhang shook his head, "It was no accident, Diana. We were torpedoed. I saw it from the bridge."
"What's a torpedo?"
"Well, it's a bomb on a fast little boat."
"We were bombed?"
"Yes. Twice."
"By who."
"I cannot say. The warship responsible, for a warship it must be, did not fly a flag. They are pirates and cowards."
"But why? They had no chance to take our goods. Near all of it sank."
"Again, I cannot say, Diana. I would guess the German fleets, but we are not at war. No country blockades us here. Who knows? Do you know anyone who commands warships?"
Wonder Woman seemed concerned by this rhetorical question. "I'm not sure."
