Red America: Western Front

Chapter Six: Heavy Metal

Commissar-Colonel Elisabeth Braddock shrugged herself out of her greatcoat and placed it and her peaked cap on the chair beside her, letting her uniformed shoulders sing with the reduced weight, before she pulled her long, blonde hair free of its severe bun, its golden tresses cascading around her shoulders, and unbuttoned her shirt and dress trousers. Throwing them aside almost carelessly, she smiled at the man lying naked on the bed in front of her, letting his eyes revel in the sight of her nude body. Stalking towards him like a tigress creeping towards a doe, she sat on the bed and lay down next to him, letting him feel the heat of her body against the flesh that she had deliberately allowed to become cold. The man gasped at the sudden warmth, and tried to say something, but Elisabeth put a finger to his mouth almost coyly.

"Shh," she purred, running her tongue over the edges of her lips. "Don't speak. You'll spoil the moment." She kissed his chest and neck, running her hands along the length of his tightly-secured arms, making sure that he was definitely not going anywhere while she could help it. And why would he? she thought with a sly inner smile. This is the culmination of his service here, after all… Reaching around him, she slid a hand underneath her pillow and drew out a long, thin stiletto dagger, distracting the man with a trail of kisses along his collarbone. He moaned as she pressed herself against him, his hands slipping through her hair as if it was a cascade of living sunlight… and then he let out a choked, liquid gurgle as Elisabeth plunged the dagger into his neck, spearing his carotid artery and slamming the blade through his windpipe. She ripped the serrated weapon free, twirling it about in her hand and speckling the sweat-soaked satin sheets with a scarlet fan of blood to match the rapidly-pooling torrent that was spilling from the massive wound in the man's throat. Then she shoved the knife deep into his convulsing stomach and twisted, feeling a thrill of satisfaction run through her as he thrashed feebly, gurgling again as he tried futilely to get away from her. Elisabeth put her face close to his ear, and whispered in a soft, seductive tone "Did you really think I didn't know what you were doing, Captain Cortez? I have eyes everywhere – and even without my telepathy, I saw everything. Everything." She laughed cruelly. "And much as he might like to think otherwise, General Doom is expendable. As are you." She twisted the knife again, and watched the light in Cortez' eyes extinguished like a snuffed-out candle. Getting up off the sodden bed and looking disdainfully at the blood smeared across her naked body, she spat on the corpse and then stalked into her private bathroom to clean herself up, after carving yet another tiny wound into the tally-marked skin of her left arm. Assign a clean-up detail to my private quarters, please, Lieutenant, she sent to Lieutenant Wagner. I have some rubbish here that I want dealt with.

As you wish, Commissar. They will be there as soon as possible, came the swift reply, and Elisabeth once again considered the possibility of promoting the diligent and conscientious young officer. He certainly had command potential, as he had demonstrated time and again while performing as her adjutant, and she wondered again whether it was time to reward that potential. Perhaps she would anonymously recommend him for promotion the next time the opportunity came up. Yes, that was ideal. At least that way he wouldn't start thinking she was somehow marking him out as a personal favourite…

Thank you, Lieutenant, she said, discarding that thought for the moment. That will be all.

Yes, sir, Lieutenant Wagner replied, and then Elisabeth sliced the psychic connection, cutting him out of her thoughts in an instant. She cracked her knuckles and stepped into the shower, feeling the hot water splash onto her skin, and smiled. Soon the trap would close on that old relic General Doom, and she would be rid of him for good.

Good riddance, she thought, acidly.

Kitty watched with disbelief as the giant suit of armour thundered along beside her soldiers with the grace and ease of something half its size. For a thing created from scavenged pieces of Soviet military hardware – and, from what Stark had told her, anything else he could get his hands on, including trashcan lids, car parts, and various motorcycles – it moved remarkably well, picking its way through the pockmarked backstreets and squeezing into the most improbable gaps without making a sound. She'd asked Stark how he'd managed to achieve something like that shortly after they'd begun their outward march, and he'd simply shrugged and said "Sorry, kid – Stark Industries copyright says I can't tell you, kid," before shifting his control stick and moving the metal giant into yet another tight space.

She moved past him and his constant companion, the younger teenager he'd called Jubilation, and fought to control her breathing when their point man Danny raised his hand to halt them. She threaded her way along the line and knelt down beside him, taking care to keep herself concealed in shadow as she did so. "What is it, Danny?" she whispered, feeling her hands automatically clenching around her rifle as if it was a comfort blanket.

"Russkies, two o'clock," Danny replied. He pointed across the road to where a couple of Russian soldiers were pacing down the street, guns at the ready, and their eyes scanning their surroundings, searching for anything unusual. "I could try wasting 'em from here, but I don't think my gun's got that kinda range."

"I'll do it," Tabby said casually, hefting her rifle and easing her way to the front of the group. "I got a way with long-distance shots. Ask Hank."

"It's true," Hank said, shrugging. "I have seen Tabitha here excel on the firing range."

Cecilia raised an eyebrow. "Wait… when did that happen?"

"I've been… tutoring Tabitha in marksmanship," Hank explained sheepishly. Cecilia scowled.

"And you didn't tell me about this… why?"

Tabby grinned, her scarred face making the gesture seem all the more ghoulish. "Ooh… getting a bit jealous, are we, chica? Well, don't you worry: Hank's not my type. Too hairy."

"Quiet, all of you, unless you want to get shot in the face," Kitty hissed, anger flashing across her face as her hand strayed to the grip of one of her pistols. "Make the shots count, Tabby: I don't want us to be discovered."

Tabby put two fingers to her brow. "Got it, boss." She put her eye to the targeting sight of her rifle, settled her finger into the trigger guard, and then squeezed the trigger twice. Kitty watched, satisfied, as the two soldiers dropped without a word.

"Good work, kid," Madrox said. "Now maybe we can get out of this place without attracting any more Ivans." His expression of hope soon turned to one of abject disbelief when he looked out of the alley and saw a tank trundling down the street, its treads squealing as its massive bulk moved slowly towards the rebels. "Oh, shit," he breathed. "Where the fuck did that come from?"

"I don't know," Kitty said resolutely, "but we've got to get past that thing." She glanced up at Stark in his metal cocoon. "Time for you to earn your bread, Mr Stark. Make those Ivans suffer."

"With pleasure," Stark replied, and he pushed a few buttons on the bank of controls on front of him. His metal monster stomped forwards, swivelling at the waist and emerging from the alleyway with its gun-arm blazing. The gunner in the tank's turret exploded in a spray of red and white fragments, ribbons of skin and splinters of bone splattering the tank's armour. The turret itself quickly turned to aim at the suit Stark had called his "Iron Man", and Kitty could hear, even from this distance, the clunking of shells being loaded into the tank's main gun. Stark seemed unconcerned, however, as he gunned the suit's engines and drove it forwards at speed, his gun arm still vomiting steel at an absurd rate. The bullets spanged off the tank's frontal armour uselessly, leaving only tiny marks where they had ricocheted off into the sidewalk. Suddenly, Kitty noticed two pods flipping out and settling onto the suit's shoulders, and she realised that the bullets were just a distraction. The hollow whoosh of something launching from them alerted her to the fact that Stark had just fired a pair of rockets directly at the tank from a ridiculously short range. Both rockets impacted against the tank's treads, blowing them to metal fragments and causing it to list to one side like a dying shark. Stark used the momentary delay to pound towards the tank and plunge the fingers of his suit's metal fist into the side of the turret. It clenched them, crumpling the metal in its grip like a collapsing house of cards, and then drew its arm upwards, ripping the turret off with almost casual ease. Flinging the turret to one side like a bored child, Stark's armour then shoved its weapon arm into the top of the vehicle and let loose a blazing volley of fire. Kitty heard the wet, hopeless screams of the tank's crew, and watched as the Iron Man suit pulled the tank to pieces as if it was nothing more than a tin can, throwing chunks of ruptured armour plating to either side of the vehicle's carcass.

"I have got to get me one of those," Madrox breathed, in awe.

"I think the question we should be asking ourselves is this," Hank began, instantly all business again now that the immediate threat was gone. "Why was there a tank in the middle of downtown San Francisco? I don't recall hearing about any kind of urban pacification policy here, after all."

Madrox shrugged. "Maybe the Ivans are cracking down on the neighbourhood because some punk kid spray-painted the Stars and Stripes on a wall somewhere. You know how they get when they think their authority is being threatened." He paused as the sound of dozens of powerful engines echoed through the streets. Swallowing, he nodded to Danny. "Danny, go check out that noise. If you see anything, come back here right away. Do not go any closer."

Danny looked over at Kitty, Cecilia and Hank for confirmation, and Kitty inclined her head in the same direction Madrox had indicated. "Go on. We'll be right here if you need us." With a brief acknowledgement of her order, Danny started creeping off towards the source of the sound, keeping to the shadows and hunkering down behind trash cans whenever he could. Kitty watched him go, and then turned to look up at Stark in his metal cocoon. "You'd better get out of sight, too. The Russkies are bound to start shooting at you if they discover a fucking huge robot suit out in the open."

Through the Plexiglas canopy of his cockpit, Stark grinned at her. "Kid, I'm positively counting on it." Then he turned the suit on one of its heavy-duty heels and walked it slowly towards the cover of a nearby alleyway again, keeping it cloaked in shadows. That would keep it concealed from all but the most determined of investigations, Kitty thought – and anybody who got any closer would soon wish they hadn't. Everybody wins, she decided with a harsh half-smile.

Her amusement died when she saw Danny running back to their position with an extremely frightened look on his face. "What's the story, Danny?" Madrox asked, concerned, beating Kitty to the punch as he did so.

"Tanks," Danny said breathlessly. "Hundreds of tanks. And from the looks of things, this isn't pacification. It's a celebration."

"A celebration?" Tabby said, snorting in contempt, her ugly scars creasing and twisting like snakes. "Of what? This town ain't exactly got much to celebrate."

"I'd guess it's more of a show of force," Hank said thoughtfully, a hand to his chin. "This is to show the native populace that they are under the Ivans' collective bootheel and there's nothing they can do about it. Typical Russkie procedure, as I recall."

"Then we have to find a way to stop it, don't we?" Cecilia said, slapping her right fist against the palm of her other hand. "We have to show the Ivans they don't own us!"

"No, Cecilia, we don't," snapped Kitty, angrily. "We lay low, hopefully until this parade is over, and then we get the hell out of here. I don't want to get caught short by thirty thousand Soviet soldiers, and I bet if you think about it neither do you. Am I right?"

Cecilia looked as if she was having trouble biting back an angry retort for a moment or two, but then she swallowed her pride and nodded silently, looking down at her feet for a moment or so. "Okay," she muttered, sounding disappointed. "Okay. It's your call, Kitty." Kitty could tell that she was not at all happy about being told what to do, but it was a relief to see her doing it nevertheless. She'd need that kind of efficiency if they were to get out of this in one piece.

Adjusting the psychic blind-spot generator that Captain Cortez had given him, Clint Barton settled himself down onto the rooftop that he would be using for his mission. It was, as he knew it would be, cold, hard and unforgiving, and it made his skin crawl, even underneath the colourless, insulating body glove he wore. An infrared targeting device was clipped to the side of his head, hinged upwards for the moment. It felt like an unnecessary complication, since he had always trusted his rifle's targeting sight and his own vision to do his job, but he took comfort in the fact that he didn't have to use it if he didn't want to – after all, he was all alone up here. Who would know if he ignored orders?

Somebody would find out, he thought acidly. Somebody always does. He cradled his rifle in the crook of his elbow and made a quick sweep of the area below him. At once, he could see the balcony from which Commissar-Colonel Braddock and General Doom would be overseeing the parade, and the long, straight street that the procession of tanks and soldiers would be moving down. Already he could see the lines of civilians beginning to fill either side of the road, behind the solid metal barricades that would keep them from running in front of the tanks and soldiers.

And then he saw the first wave of soldiers marching down the street in rigid parade-ground formation, all of them precisely in step with the others and with their rifles held at almost exactly the same angle. Trundling behind them was a pristinely-decorated tank, its flanks and turret splattered with the Soviet star and the hammer and sickle. Its armour had clearly just come from the factory, and Clint wondered just how long it would be before it was as pitted and scarred as all the other tanks he'd seen in his time in service to the Motherland. Another tank just like it followed closely, accompanied by a second wave of Soviet troops. The formation repeated itself half a dozen times, until the street was almost totally full of Russian soldiers. Along the parade's route, Clint could see the artificial enthusiasm of the crowds, who were clearly just there to avoid getting shot, and he could identify with their obvious desire to be somewhere else – he was still terribly unsure that he was doing the right thing in following Captain Cortez's orders: nothing he'd seen of Commissar-Colonel Braddock's record indicated that she should be executed like this. Still, he reasoned, this was his job, and this was his mission. That came first, not his personal feelings.

Then, looking down at the balcony again, he saw General Doom and Commissar-Colonel Braddock making their way out at last. Time to bite the bullet, Clint, he thought sourly, and then pulled down the targeting device, put his eye to his rifle, and settled his finger into the trigger guard. When he saw Commissar-Colonel Braddock appear in his crosshairs, he pulled the trigger, and felt his guilt melt away.

Commissar-Colonel Braddock stepped out onto the balcony, putting her hands behind her back after adjusting her cap a little, and then turned to see General Doom's rejuvenated body following her out. She hated the smug look he'd had on his face ever since Dr Pym had dosed him up with the healing-factor serum – he clearly knew that he was her equal again, and that irked her a great deal. Up until now he had been an annoyance at best, but now he was a thorn in her side that was growing by the day. That will end soon enough, she thought with brief satisfaction. She saluted him with a brief, thin smile, and he returned the gesture with an equally small amount of warmth and sincerity.

"Commissar," he said.

"General," Elisabeth replied, before she nodded down towards the columns of tanks and men. "I do hope today's parade goes according to plan – it seems like it would be a lot of effort for nothing otherwise."

"Yes," Doom said, gripping the balcony's rail with both hands and watching the tanks roll past like armoured beetles. "I've ordered my troops to put down any disturbances as quickly and efficiently as possible. We shouldn't have any trouble."

"One hopes not, General," Elisabeth said, moving to stand alongside him. "Otherwise I shall hold you personally responsible." She moved away from the railing and inspected the masonry above the doors to the interior offices, running her fingers over the cold stone and examining them casually.

Doom pulled one side of his mouth up in another cold smile. "I'm sure you will. I wouldn't expect anything less."

Suddenly, the sharp crack of rifle fire barked loudly in the still air. In the scant fragments of time she knew she had before the bullet crushed her skull, Elisabeth was already grabbing Doom by his lapels and swinging him in front of her as a human shield. She watched the pain on Doom's face in satisfaction as the bullet punched into his spine, shattering it for the second time. She felt the bullet finally impact against the body armour she was wearing underneath her greatcoat, almost driving the breath from her lungs as it did so, but that was all it did. She supposed that that was a fair pay-off for letting her survive.

Dragging Doom's limp form up to her eye level, she glared at him, finally letting her anger to the surface. "Traitorous filth," she hissed. "I killed your little henchman Captain Cortez earlier today, and now I'm killing you. If you thought this was a good idea, then you deserve it." She snorted in contempt. "And as for putting a psychic blind-spot in such a crowded area… you might as well have simply told me where to look. You're an idiot, Doom, and the Red Army is better off without you."

Doom coughed up a trickle of bright red blood, spilling it down his scarred chin as he did so. "Stupid… bitch," he gurgled. "I'll… be healed in a moment… then I'll have you arrested."

"No. You won't," Elisabeth snarled. "General Victor von Doom, you have been found wanting by the Commissariat of the Soviet Union, and are hereby found guilty of treason. The sentence is death." She knew she had only seconds to act before the new enzymes in Doom's blood began to fix the damage that had been done to him, so she had to act now, or face some unpleasant difficulties. Grasping her service automatic, she dragged it out of its holster, put it to the side of General Doom's head, and pulled the trigger. The surprised look in Doom's eyes as he collapsed in a bloody heap was one she would savour for a long time to come. Reaching into a pocket of her greatcoat and drawing out a headset microphone, she jacked it into the public address system that was set in the corner of the balcony, which was intended for inspirational speeches to an obedient public. Slipping the headset on, she barked "People of San Francisco! See what happens when you betray the Soviet Union!" Dragging the General's corpse up, she shoved it over the balcony's edge and watched it tumble limply to the ground like a broken doll, eventually impacting with bone-shattering force against the sidewalk. Pulling the headset off, Elisabeth turned on one heel and marched inside. She had better things to do than watch a parade, after all…

Clint cursed as the shot he'd just fired impacted against General von Doom instead of his intended target. He quickly ejected the spent cartridge from his rifle and slammed another into the chamber, readying himself for another shot in the space of a split second… and then he noticed a fragrance of rose petals around him – which definitely hadn't been there before. He scrambled up from his prostrate position and raised his rifle, sweeping the rooftop with a single glance.

Nothing. There was nothing there. What the hell's going on? he thought, utterly confused – and then he felt a pair of lips softly brush themselves against his cheek. He spun round, bringing his rifle to bear as fast as he could – but as fast as he was, he wasn't as fast as the slender, serrated combat knife that was pressed against his throat. He glanced at it for a second, before looking up into the eyes of who was holding it. Brilliant green fire looked back at him, framed by tousled red hair and a classically beautiful Russian face. Wiry, panther-like muscles filled out a grey one-piece uniform with a stylised black widow spider emblazoned on the right breast.

"Natasha…" Clint breathed, feeling the cold steel bite into his neck a little as he did so. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Nor I you, Clint," Natasha Romanova said in a softly-accented voice. "It seems that we are on opposite sides this time. A pity; I always enjoyed working with you." She withdrew the knife from his throat, grabbed his lapel, and kissed him with a primal energy that Clint knew he'd been a fool to give up. He felt himself getting lost in the kiss, touching Natasha's face and drawing her closer to him – and that was when he felt the knife sliding between his ribs. He staggered backwards, feeling blood pumping from the wound in his chest, looking at her with a questioning expression on his face. Natasha looked… upset, almost, and she touched his cheek with an apologetic hand. "I'm sorry, Clint, but orders are orders. We will meet again, I'm sure."

The world blurred. Clint felt his knees buckle, and then the lights went out.

Clint opened his eyes with a start, surprised to find himself alive. It took him a moment to realise that he was vertical, and that he was suspended in some kind of liquid with an oxygen mask over his face. He looked around to see if he could determine where he was, and saw that the roof of the capsule in which he was floating was only a few feet above him. He raised both of his hands to it and pushed as hard as he could, but it was sealed tightly. A sense of panic washed over him as he realised that he was trapped.

"Don't get excited, Mr Barton, you're quite safe," said a voice, seemingly from out of nowhere. Then Clint realised that there was a miniature implant nestled in a rubber container over his right ear, which was why the voice was crystal-clear and not at all muffled by the water around him. He looked out of the tube to see if he could determine who was speaking, and saw a woman in a greatcoat and cap standing by herself in the centre of the room, with her hands clasped behind her back. She marched closer and pressed her fingers against the glass. "Hello, Crimson Commando," she said with an almost demonic smile crossing her lips. "I have a job for you…"