Chapter 3.
SOMEWHERE IN THE PENTAGON
(THREE YEARS EARLIER)
"You have an impressive record, Colonel," said Amanda Waller (looking over a beige dossier): "But, I want to hear- - from your own lips- -why you think you're the best one to take over as field leader of this project."
Colonel Slade Wilson (U. S. Army Special Forces) stood at parade rest as he began his reply.
"There is no denying that Dr. Keyes was a brilliant man. . .in the laboratory. But, with all due respect, ma'am? He had zero military experience in the field! Whereas I have lived off the land (behind enemy lines), more-than-enough times to realize that a true hunter always tailors his methodology to the nature of the individual prey he is hunting. Because, what succeeds on one occasion might not work a second time in a row. Not even with a different specimen of the same prey!"
"If Dr. Keyes had had that kind of field experience under his belt, it might have occurred to him that these extra-terrestrial hunters might very well have hunted _other_ extra-terrestrials in between visits to Earth. And on planets with lighting conditions radically different from those _on_ Earth! Up to, and including, frequencies higher than ultra-violet and lower than infra-red."
"By contrast, Lt. Harrigan of the LAPD instinctively realized this because he, himself, is a highly trained- -and experienced- -hunter of men. Thereby allowing him to succeed at taking this creature down."
Waller smiled. . .like a Cheshire cat with rabies.
"Nice speech, Colonel. But, can you honestly _guarantee_ that you can do better at bagging one of these things, alive?"
"No, ma'am, I can't. And no one else in their right mind honestly could, either! Because, real life is more fluid than any battle plan; no matter how well formulated. The best I can legitimately promise you is that I can learn from the good doctor's mistakes. . .and engineer a situation that will prove irresistible to the next Predator that visits Earth."
Thanking him for his frankness, Waller sent Wilson back to the anteroom. Five minutes later, she sent Lieutenant Garber to relay her decision. Which the latter did. . .with a preliminary salute.
"Welcome to the project, sir. Allow me to show you around!"
THE PARADISE CASINO,
GOTHAM CITY, N. J.
(JUNE 29, 2001)
The maître d'hôtel, inspected the five men who walked up to the dining room's velvet rope, next. They were all dressed the exact same way: black suits (with matching shoes and ties), off-set by white shirts. The youngest of the group appeared to be in his very early twenties. While the second oldest of them (the bald one) appeared to be the one in charge.
"May I help you?"
The bald man nodded: "Dixon Hill; party of five. We have a reservation."
"Ah, yes! Right this way."
The quintet was subsequently led to a table near the band stand.
"Here are your menus! Your waiter will be with you, shortly."
"Thank you."
As soon as the maître d'hôtel was out of earshot, Riker leaned forward.
"Are you sure this is a good idea, sir? Masquerading as Federal agents, I mean?"
Picard nodded: "The UFO sightings of this time period are filled with urban legends, about non-descript men in black, investigating eyewitnesses the very next day. It will preserve the Prime Directive for us to appear to be those kind of men."
"But, a gambling casino?!" Riker persisted.
"This is where that Englishman I spoke to on the telephone said they'd be coming," Wesley now interjected: "Some kind of fund-raiser for something called the Tompkins Free Clinic."
He was, of course, referring to Richard Grayson and his legal guardian, Bruce Wayne. A billionaire philanthropist who had somehow persuaded an otherwise fully booked stage magician, stage-named Zatanna, to do a one-night stand for charity.
The tickets had sold out within an hour of the news being made public.
As for the time-traveling quintet? Their runabout had landed twenty-four hours earlier. And, when Riker had asked precisely _where_ they had landed, the Traveler had smilingly replied:
"In a small clearing near the foot of Ghost Mountain. The geographic eponym for a local Native American reservation. Some of whose present-day inhabitants will have descendants on Dorvan IV! Not to worry, though. No one will stumble across it before we are finished, here. And, from here, Wesley and I can teleport us all to Downtown Gotham City."
"Are we not dressed rather. . .conspicuously, for that?" Spock had asked.
And, Picard had been unable to resist chuckling as he replied that he had a remedy for that.
"But, it will require you establishing a mind-meld between the Traveler and myself," he had added.
Spock had nodded. And, moments later, the Traveler mentally saw what the good captain had in mind. While, conversely, Picard saw why the enigmatic being from Tau Ceti had needed his and Riker's help for this dire mission. Riker would be serving as their chief of security. While Picard's broad archeological knowledge of this time period would help the five of them blend in better. Combine this with Spock's knowledge of his mother's genealogy, and they might be able to accomplish this mission with nobody at the Starfleet Department of Temporal Investigations any the wiser!
By ten o'clock of that Friday morning, the quintet had entered the lobby of the Gotham Ritz-Carlton Hotel, where they promptly rented a suite of adjoining rooms on the next-to-top floor. This had not been their first stop, however. That dubious honor went to a certain pawn shop, where Picard and Riker had been forced to trade their golden comm-badges for some much-needed cash!
"Not to worry," the Traveler had reiterated: "Wesley and I have our own unique mind-meld. So, we shall all be able to keep in touch, just as effectively, as long as one of us is accompanying either of you."
Once they were comfortably settled in, it was Wesley who had made the phone call to Wayne Manor. Pretending (under Spock and Picard's coaching) to be a reporter for a certain magazine they both knew to be very popular among teenagers of this time period. And, thereby, pretending to want a face-to-face interview with young Richard Grayson.
The question as to where the latter would be, later that day, had been deftly answered by a man calling himself "Alfred." Yet, at the same time, something in his phrasing made Wesley suspect Alfred had also been rather evasive.
"He refused to tell me precisely _when_ they'd be arriving at that casino, as Bruce Wayne is apparently famous for _always_ being fashionably late!"
To which Spock had (quite logically) replied: "Then, we shall have to arrive ahead of them, and muster the requisite patience to wait."
Their patience would be rewarded in ways they could never have anticipated.
* * * * *
Suddenly, the lights in the dining room went dim, at the same as a stage-in-the-round began to rise from the dance floor.
"Ladies and gentlemen," intoned the master of ceremonies over the P.A. system: "Preeeeeeeeeeeesenting; fresh from Las Vegas, Nevada. That Crown Princess of Prestidigitation. . .ZATANNA!"
Everyone began to clap, accordingly. Several even "ooh-ed" and "ah-ed" as there came a small explosion of white smoke! Followed by the apparent materialization, out of thin air, of a lovely young woman wearing fishnet stockings; a black tuxedo jacket with tails; and a top hat that she doffed as she melodramatically bowed. Revealing long, black hair that complemented her lovely blue eyes.
"Greetings, Gothamites!" she exclaimed: "As you already know, tonight's performance is dedicated to the continued operation of the Tompkins Free Medical Clinic. So, before we do anything else, why don't you get out your wallets while I pass the hat? POT TAH! TAOLF MORF ELBAT OT ELBAT."
Whereupon, her seemingly enchanted chapeau began to levitate in a counter-clockwise circle!
"Fascinating," whispered Mr. Spock, with an arched eyebrow.
That sentiment was shared not only by the other four men at the table. But, also everyone else in the room, as they put up to a hundred dollars per person into the seemingly bottomless hat! This, in turn, prompted a uniformed security guard named "Ian Mueller" (who was watching the show via a closed-circuit TV monitor) to smile. He then lifted his left arm, and spoke into what most people thought was merely a wristwatch.
"Falseface to Mad Hatter. Falseface to Mad Hatter. Now's the time! Over."
"Mad Hatter to Falseface. Roger that. We are beginning infiltration. . .now!"
At which point, two figures in black began descending on ropes, mountaineer-style, to a certain office window on the third floor of the nightclub
casino.
"Deadshot to Mad Hatter," one of them began to recite: "Deadshot to Mad Hatter. We are in position! Over."
"Acknowledged, Deadshot. Proceed with Phase 2."
Whereupon, the two figures in black pushed off, from the side of the building, and swung outward at a ninety-degree angle. At the arc of that swing, one of them withdrew an Uzi submachine gun with built-on silencer. . ..and started firing subsonic armor-piercing bullets at the bulletproof window of Rupert Thorne's office!
It was, therefore, the ensuing crash of breaking glass that the Caped Crusaders (staked out on the roof of a neighboring office building) picked up over their parabolic microphones.
"Looks like it's time for action, Robin."
The Teen Wonder merely grinned.
tbc
