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Chapter 14

Rubicon

Hydra Base Alpha-1

Brock Rumlow smiled under his mask, the mask of Crossbones. The men on the transport looked at him with something approaching awe. Damn right they did, Rumlow thought. He'd just bagged the biggest game there was: Captain America. Kill a legend and you become a legend. It was a pleasing thought, but as the stealth chopper approached the island, Rumlow's smile disappeared. He craned his head towards the cabin.

"What did that asshole say? Turn that radio up!"

Rumlow listened along with the rest of the team as the American reporter gave the news.

"—to repeat, Captain America is alive. Just moments ago, the Wasp, chairman of the Avengers, confirmed this news, stating that earlier reports of his death were—"

Crossbones bolted from his seat, screaming with guttural rage. He ripped the speaker from the wall, crushing it, but the news could still be heard from the cabin.

"Turn it off, Goddamn it! Off!"

Hearing muttered laughter from behind him, Rumlow turned. It was the platoon leader, Rich Diggs. Big man, tough, strong, one of the few troopers who didn't quake in fear around him.

"You see something funny, Diggs?"

Diggs stood. "You. You're funny. Crossbones, the badass who thought he killed Captain America."

It was the Hydra way. At the first sign of weakness, when blood was in the water, that was the time to strike. Almost all promotions in Hydra came at the expense of a comrades death or failure. Survival of the fittest at its most pure.

"So it's going to be now," Crossbones said, a smile coloring his tone. He unfastened his belt and shoulder harness, dropping his weapons as he turned to the trooper on his left.

"Diggs's been gunning for my job for months. He thinks he can take me. What do you think, Jinks?"

"I think fighting you is suicide, s'what I think."

"Ha! You ought to listen to him, Diggs. Or you should have." Crossbones waved him forward. "Come get me."

Diggs charged like a bull. The others tried to make room, but the hold was too small, and the two men crashed into them. There was no room for technique; they wrestled, pitting muscle against muscle. As the helicopter landed, the short but violent battle ended. The door opened, and Brock Rumlow, the dreaded Crossbones, stepped out, holding the lifeless body of Rich Diggs by the collar of his broken neck. He tossed the body at the feet of the flight deck commander.

"Clean that shit off the deck," he said, striding past, and heading to his private quarters. Captain America survived, and the humiliation burned Rumlow…but he was still Crossbones. Nobody would challenge him again for a good long while.

He was in his quarter's barely long enough to shower and change into a fresh uniform, when the call came. He was expecting it.

"Agent Rumlow," said the voice from the wall speaker. "Report to the Supreme Commander's office. Immediately."

Minutes later, he was standing outside the office. He wasn't looking forward to this, but he might as well get it over with. Security admitted him. The Skull was standing in front of his desk. Behind him, Viper lounged on an elegant leather couch. Rumlow smiled lustfully. Sometimes it was handy wearing a full face mask. He walked over, ready to take his lumps.

"Boss," he said, deferentially. "You wanted to see me?"

The Skull said nothing for a long pass of time. Finally, he spoke.

"You disobeyed my direct order. Explain yourself."

"What was I supposed to do? Cap and his boy Falcon, they crashed the scene. It was him or me. I had to fight him!"

"Your mission was to silence that Gallic imbecile Batroc, insure he divulge nothing to the authorities. You were not to freelance. I made my orders clear to all my field agents: Captain America is not to be harmed…yet you tried to kill him!"

"Look, we fought, he tripped. What was I supposed to do?"

"He tripped?"

The Skull snatched Rumlow by the neck, lifting him from the ground. Rumlow tried to claw lose, but the Skull's grip was iron. With his free hand, the Skull took the remote from his desk, activating the video screen behind him, never taking his eyes off Crossbones.

"Does that look like he tripped?" the Skull demanded. The video was news footage from the operation in Queens, showing Crossbones heaving Captain America off the roof. Filmed from a distance, but clear enough. "I asked you a question," the Skull shouted. "Does that look like he tripped?"

The Skull loosened his grip just enough for Rumlow to squeeze in a few ragged breaths. "Fk…ou," he wheezed. He pulled the modified 44 Magnum from his holster, and jammed it into the socket of the Red Skull's right eye. "…agnesum…tped," he managed. "…blw hed…rite off."

"Oh? Pull the trigger and see," the Skull said, gleefully. For several seconds the standoff held. Finally, fighting unconsciousness, Rumlow dropped his pistol, raising his hands in surrender. The Skull released his grip, and Rumlow collapsed to the floor.

"Fetch him something to drink," the Skull said.

Viper handed Crossbones a glass of water, which he slapped from her hand, making her laugh. Rumlow stood, cradling his throat, his voice ragged as he spoke.

"You're pushing me too far. I'm loyal to you. I fight for you. I kill for you! You got no right to treat me that way."

"My strength gives me the right. Never forget that. I left you your dignity, Crossbones. I did not chasten you in front of the men. You are my most talented operative. Because of that, I give you more latitude than I do any other, more liberties, even the liberty to threaten violence to me. But the Captain is off limits to all. He is mine, you knew that."

"I'm sorry, all right? The opportunity was there and I just…"

"I understand," the Skull said, tenderly. "You are a killer. You were only following your nature. But he is to be untouched, remember that. It would trouble me greatly should I be forced to kill you."

"Yeah, I can see you're all choked up."

The Skull laughed as Rumlow picked up his gun and headed to the door.

"Ah, if only your intellect was a great as your capacity for violence. I should almost love you I think; like the son I never had. You are still loyal?"

Rumlow turned. "Win, lose or draw…I'm with you. To the end."

"Good. We are accelerating our timetable. Your team must be ready to move at a moment's notice. When I assume the mantle of power, you will have earned yourself a great share of the spoils of war. A seat at my side."

Crossbones straightened, his chest puffing with angry pride. He hammered his right fist to his heart. "Hail Hydra!" he shouted. "Hail the Red Skull!"

Rumlow left the room. Viper came up behind the Skull, offering a glass of wine. "He is an amusing brute," she said, snaking her arms around his body. "But he bears watching. He is dangerous."

"I dare say. I find it useful, surrounding myself with deadly things. But perhaps I was too hard on him," he said, sipping the wine. "What do you think, my dear?"

"I think you handled him as you needed to," Viper said, disinterestedly.

"Still, his pride was wounded. Perhaps it would be good if he found… comfort. No?"

Viper did not answer, appearing bored.

"I go to my chamber," the Skull said, handing the wine back to her. "Tell my secretary I am to be undisturbed for the next six hours. Join me later for dinner. We shall watch my brother's press conference."

After the Skull left the room, Viper allowed the veil to drop from her scorn. He played at omnipotence, wanting everyone to think he knew all, that he saw all. He was powerful, there was no denying, and there were many things he knew which she could not divine. But he did not know everything. It was always a game with him, a deadly game, but one she could play. Play and win. Draining the glass, she headed off to Rumlow's quarters, as she intended all along. Let the Skull think he had ordered it. She was no man's puppet. Viper had her own agenda to see to.

Arlington, Virginia

From the comfort of his luxurious apartment, Oliver Holder watched the news coverage, his relief palpable. The Boy Scout was alive. His death would have been a devastating setback, but as it turned out, things had gone perfectly. Rogers couldn't hold out much longer, the sanctimonious poseur. The way everybody fawned over him, the mindless hero-worship they paid, even people in positions of responsibility, people who should know better. His stubborn refusal to cooperate was tantamount to treason—why couldn't people see that? Well, it didn't matter now, the thing was done. Oliver was going to win this fight, and history would vindicate him.

He clicked the television off and poured himself another brandy. Tomorrow, he would reach out to Rogers and lay out the plain, hard facts. The serum would once again be in the hands of people who could direct its awesome power. Everything was falling into place. Tomorrow would be a great day.

Oliver stood and finished his drink, contemplating turning in for night, when he saw a figure standing in the shadowy corner of the room. He did a comic spit-take, choking.

"Fury?" he said, wiping his mouth. "What in God's name are you doing in my apartment? Have you lost your mind?"

"Nice place you have, Ollie," Fury said, walking over. "Take a seat. We need to talk."

"We'll do no such thing. I'm calling my security detail," Holder said, taking the phone from his pocket. "I suggest you be gone before they get here."

"Drop it, Holder, or I'll fry you." Fury drew his gun. "Medium stun, hurts like hell. And that field dampening generator in the other room? I deactivated it. Gun will work just fine."

Holder lowered his hand, dropping his phone to the side. "You really have lost your mind. Breaking in here, threatening me. You're not just going to lose SHIELD over this, you're going to do time. You're finished, you hear me? Finished!"

"Yeah, got you. I'm crazy and I'm finished. But I'm still the one holding the gun. Sit, Ollie. Or do I scramble your nervous system?"

Holder sat.

"Gripping news on the television tonight, wasn't it? Whole country on edge. Wonder what'll happen when people find out Cap is sick, and when they learn who's to blame?"

"Is that why you're here?" Holder said snidely, almost laughing. "You're wasting your time. I've been trying to help Rogers for weeks now. CIA, NSA, Army, Homeland Security, they've all offered help, once his illness became known."

"The illness you caused."

"Try to make that case, please. I'll show SHIELD's fingerprints all over it. Your fingerprints. Top Shelf started with your people, under your watch."

"I have my predecessor to thank for that. I shut it down. You opened it up again."

"You're tied to it Fury, all the way. I go down? You go down. But I wouldn't worry about that happening. It's a fait acompli. Rogers will have no choice but to turn to us for help."

"You really think he's going to trust the man who's trying to kill him?"

"Kill him? Do you think I'm insane? No, I'm going to be the man who saved Captain America…and who got back the treasure that's rightfully ours. When all is said and done, no one's going to care how it happened. Hell, I'll get a medal for it."

Fury shook his head. "I thought you were smarter than this, Ollie. Your plan is blowing up in your face, and you're taking victory laps."

"Because I've already won," Holder said, taking another drink. "Care for a brandy? It's French, very good…though it looks like you've had a few already. You really should be more careful, Fury. People are beginning to talk."

Movement from the far end of the room made them both turn to look. It was Holder's aide, wearing only silken pajama bottoms, and a look of surprise on his handsome young face.

Fury looked at Holder, smiling. "People do talk in this town, don't they?"

Holder's expression iced over. "Timothy, go back to the room."

"But I—"

"Now, Timothy!"

Timothy left, and Holder turned to Fury, glaring. "If you even think about using this… this misunderstanding against me, I'll hit back, twice as hard. I have files, full of enough dirt to sink you."

"I'm sure you do. Look, I could care less about your personal life, Holder. Two of my top division commanders are gay."

"I am not gay! Slander me again and I promise—"

"Right, you're not gay. That's why you and your conservative friends on the hill bash homosexuals at every turn, to show the world how straight you are. No, you're not gay….you're just a stinking two-faced hypocrite. Think they'll give you a medal for that?"

Fury pulled a small device from his pocket and threw it to Holder, who spilled his drink catching it. "There's a pin under that lever. Prick your finger on it, then press it against that pad."

"The hell I will. I want you out of here, Fury. Now."

Fury bolted at Holder, jamming his knee into his chest while pressing his gun to his forehead. He wasn't gentle.

"I'm through playing games! Maximum stun," Fury said, cranking the setting higher. "A few seconds of this juice and you won't be able to walk for a month. Now do it."

"You really have lost your mind," Holder said, his eyes wide. He pricked his thumb and pressed it to the pad. "Now what?"

"We wait. Takes about sixty seconds." Fury tapped a small LED screen in the center of the device. "If it lights up green, everything is fine and I go on my way…if it lights up red? I kill you here and now. Afraid Timothy will have to go as well. You picked a bad night to invite your heterosexual friend over for a slumber party."

"You'll never get away with it."

Fury sighed. "We've both been getting away with it for years. Starting to catch up with us now, that's all."

Seconds ticked by. The screen lit up green. Fury took the gun from Holder's head and stepped back.

"Congratulations, Holder. You're you."

"What is all this?" Holder asked, mopping his forehead.

Fury walked to the bar. Holder made a calculation: he couldn't reach his desk across the room, to the revolver in the top drawer, but maybe he could wrestle Fury's gun from him. Fury had about twenty pounds on him, but Oliver kept himself in top condition. He excelled in jujitsu, and was a champion wrestler in his prep school days. He thought he could take Fury…maybe. Finishing his calculation, he kept his seat. Fury spoke.

"About two months ago, SHIELD uncovered Hydra's latest plot—not the whole plan, just this piece of it, but it's a doozy. Ever heard the term Lysergic Mono-dexhydrosylic Dioxide?"

"No."

"Me neither, till two months ago. It's a mouthful, isn't it? I prefer its acronym, LMD. LMD is an enzyme instrumental in producing amino acids. All humans have it, in very specific quantities. Turns out testing for LMD is the quickest, surest way to tell if someone is a real person, or a clone. Human cloning is a federal crime, so of course you'd never associate with anyone who would do such a thing…would you Ollie?"

Holder froze, his mouth dropping slightly. "Lerner is dead. He died in a car crash four years ago."

"Save it. Four years ago, you lost control of Lerner. He went off the rails, too crazy for even you to tolerate. So you sent in a team to erase him. They failed. Your little Dr. Frankenstein survived, Holder."

"Impossible. I sent my best men. I saw the documentation. Hell, I saw the body! Lerner is dead."

"No, his clone is dead. Lerner is alive. You trained him, financed him, and developed his resources. And when you took it all away, he found a new patron, someone without even your scruples. He found the Red Skull."

Holder's face drained of color. "That…that's not true."

"It's true. Hydra has been killing men and women of power around the globe, replacing them with clones compliments of the good doctor. Not the top people, but at the fringes, people with influence, who can control or destabilize things in a crisis. People like you. But it turns out they haven't got you. Kind of surprised, really."

Fury eyed a row of bottles. He smiled, finding a particularly fine single malt whiskey, and poured a glass.

"My people call them Life Model Decoys—LMD. Cute, huh? They're identical to the people they've replaced, fingerprints, retina scans, brainwave, the works. They even believe they are those people…but they're not. The LMD's have been conditioned psychologically and genetically, to respond to Hydra commands. When the time comes, they'll turn. The ultimate sleeper agents, belonging mind and body, to the Skull. We've eliminated twenty two LMD's in the past six weeks, in eight different countries. God only knows how many are still out there."

Fury downed his drink, and then looked at Holder with searing contempt.

"You've given the world's most dangerous man the greatest weapon he's ever had. And you've taken the only man who's ever defeated him and put him at death's door. How's that medal looking now?"

"I…I can fix this," Holder said, staring vacantly into the dark. "I just need time."

"Your time is up. I'm offering you a deal, maybe it'll even keep you out of prison. By eight am this morning, I want your resignation on the President's desk. By noon, I want all the data on what you've done to Captain America, as well as how to cure him, delivered to Dr. Henry Pym, at Avengers Mansion. Either of these things fails to occur, I'll torch you. Federal Prosecutors, Congressional hearings, the works."

Holder laughed, a hard, feral sound. The sound of a man unraveling.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Fury? You think I'm finished, beaten. Well I'm not! I can fix this..."

Fury set his glass down and walked over to Holder, striking him backhand across the face. Holder sat dumbly, a trickle of blood threading from the corner of his mouth.

"I can't tell you how badly I wanted that screen to light up red," Fury said. "Remember; the resignation, and the cure. I'll be watching."

Fury walked out the front door. For three long hours, Oliver Holder sat in the darkness of his plush Arlington apartment, trying to understand what had just happened to his world. As the first light of dawn tinted the sky, he went to his computer and began typing his letter of resignation to the President.

Hydra Base Alpha-1

The Skull entered his quarters, walking past his writing desk and books, past his wardrobe and his bed, coming to the wall. He reached out and pressed a stone, and then pressed two other stones, in rapid succession. The wall opened, splitting along an invisible seam in the masonry. The Skull stepped through the opening, the wall closing behind him. This was his most private sanctum, not even Viper knew of its existence. There were identical rooms in all of his bases, known to only himself.

The room was circular, thirty feet in diameter, with a domed roof, ten feet at its apex. The walls were stone, as was the floor. He passed his hand over an iron brazier which held a large, rough hewn piece of quartz, and it began to glow blue-white. In the center of the chamber was a low-lying marble slab set upon blocks of gold. It gave the appearance of an altar, and the Skull laid himself upon it, crossing his arms on his chest. A minute passed, then two. At the third minute, a change came over him; his clothing collapsed around his bones. The hue went out him, the scarlet of his skeleton dimming to a faded red, then becoming white. It was a skeleton now, no longer the all-but-indestructible frame that held his essence, merely a collection of bones held in place by scraps of leathery tendon…

The final remains of Johann Schmidt.

A simple blow from a hammer might shatter those bones. He did not know what would become of him should such a thing happen, so he took care to insure it never would.

He was free now, outside his body. With a thought, he sent forth his mind's eye, a skill he had mastered long ago—half science, half sorcery. He learned to mask his presence when traveling the astral plane. There were dangers to be avoided in this realm, great powers like the mutant Xavier, and the mystic Stephen Strange, each, respectively, masters of the mind and of magic. He took care to avoid conflict with them…for the time being. Soon, all rivals to his power would fall, dead or enslaved to his service, but until then, caution was needed.

It was an inexact thing, this second sight of his. Often, he caught only glimpses, sometimes nothing at all. Today, it went well. Bending all his thought on one thing, one person, he soon saw him. His brother; Captain America, lying in a hospital bed. He was greatly relieved to find he was indeed alive…though not well. He could sense it now, clearly. The specter of death hung over him, and soon it would be too late. Haste was needed. Even with the accelerated timetable, conquest might come too late, and that was unacceptable. He began to formulate a plan. It was crude, inelegant—almost cartoonish, really—not worthy of him, or his brother.

And yet the longer he thought, the more he began to like this new plan. It afforded many possibilities, ones he had not seen at first glance. Suddenly, a new thought occurred. It was an inspiration, a glorious, ironic, gem of an idea. The Skull was flooded with good cheer, knowing at last what he must do. When the moment of victory arrived, and the world was his, Rogers would be there to witness it…and to taste the bitter ashes of utter defeat.

He saw his brother looking about, searching the dimly lit hospital room, almost as if he sensed a presence. Impossible. Rogers possessed no paranormal abilities. And yet, they had always been linked. Rogers, ever the dull pragmatist, dismissed it, but the Skull knew the truth; they were brothers. Not of blood, but of fate. The Skull let his sight drift…

He cast his sight to his men, the forces of Hydra, stationed in hidden bases around the globe, and saw them. The mood among his troops was good. They were anxious for the coming battle, confident, certain. He kept them strategically positioned, ready to move at his command.

Chess pieces, in the hands of a Grand Master.

His rooks numbered three hundred. They were his sleeper agents, his clones; critical components in his plans. Fury's organization had uncovered some of them—including a few key pieces—but not enough to derail his play. His castles were his strike teams, fifty thousand crack agents, highly trained and fanatically loyal. His bishop, Lerner, brilliant and mad, supplied the miracles he needed.

His queen…she was a problem. Covetous of his throne. But he needed her and the forces she could marshal. His pawns were many, and of two types. First, his infantry, Hydra regulars. Trained and loyal, they numbered over two-million, far more than the world suspected. Useful, but expendable. At the bottom, were the sub-pawns, the various hate groups he nourished—not Hydra, but ideologically sympathetic, easy to manipulate. They existed all around the world, in the hundreds of thousands. Fools, cannon fodder. But every army needed such. As King of this army, the Red Skull lacked but one thing…

He lacked his knights. But soon, they would be ready. A thousand at first. One hundred thousand in the months to come. After that, millions. An army unto itself, invincible, unstoppable—and his to command. He would sweep the board with this army. His first move would be to topple the great powers, the United States and Russia. With their resources, the remainder of the world would fall quickly. He had made arrangements that would take China out of play, neutralizing Asia until he could marshal his forces. Europe would come next, and the exquisite pleasure of humbling England. After that, the third world would fall in line. The Middle-East, which had the oil he would still need for a time, would not be conquered. It would be obliterated. He would tolerate no protracted conflict with backward religious fanatics. All religions would be abolished in the coming age…the age of the Skull. There would be no God in this world save one. A great, Red God. This new God did not require worship, merely obedience. Total and unwavering obedience.

The Skull's vision clouded, and he felt himself being pulled backward, through a mist. A feeling came to him at the end, vague, ill defined…the sense that there was a traitor in his midst. This same premonition occurred the last time he had sent out his mind's eye, but he remained unable to focus on it. The moment was lost. The Skull opened the eyes of his earthly sight, once again in his sanctum, back in his body. Slowly, he rose from the slab.

A spy. He would need to ferret out this threat. Spies were, of course, a common thing. Mossad, MI-6, CIA, SHIELD, the Russians, the Chinese, the French—and more, constantly trying to get inside his organization. Usually they were found and easily removed. Some would slip through the net, small players who learned little of value. Occasionally, he would let some remain in place. Spies could be a pipeline for passing along misinformation. But not this time. He sensed this spy posed a danger, penetrating too deeply. He must find this spy and learn what he has discovered.

The Skull activated the hidden doorway, striding back into his quarters. His steps faltered. Using his second sight always left him drained. He needed rest. He walked over to the mantle of his fireplace, touching the com-screen. Lerner answered.

"Yes Mr. Schmidt?"

"We have a spy. Activate the Modok…but use him with care. I want to take this spy alive. Report your findings to me when you are finished."

He switched off the connection, content that the problem would quickly be addressed. The Skull collapsed on his bed. As sleep stole over his senses, he glanced at the book on his nightstand, and smiled. For the past three nights he had been re-reading The Commentaries of Cesar, gleaning knowledge from the great conqueror. His own Rubicon now loomed ahead. As Cesar had done two thousand years ago, the Red Skull would soon cross the point of no return, and step into empire and immortality. The time was near at hand.