BOULDER, CO – Two Years Ago
"Andy," Matt began tenderly.
"Don't!" Andy said. "Not the 'consoling a child' tone. Look again. The math checks out – these things work."
Matt looked over the blueprints one more time. The larger of the two showed a tanker truck that was capable of transforming into a mobile communications center, complete with a missile launch silo and a heavy weapons platform. "I call it Outlaw," Andy had told him.
The smaller of the two showed a mask with three venetian blind-like panels for a mouth, angry black slits for eyes, and tanks over the ears. The tanks looked like locks of hair, and that was on purpose – "We call this one Samson, and it will grant immense physical strength to the wearer!"
"Immense physical... Andy, I just don't think this will work. I mean, these were supposed to be power-ups for a video game!"
"I'm telling you, Brother, I can build these and make them work in real life. That's better than any video game."
Matt heaved a sigh. "You really convinced that old guy that all of this can be built?"
"Yeah," Andy said. "Miles believes in the project so much he gave me a blank check!"
Matt was still skeptical. "Bring me a prototype, and I'll believe it."
BOULDER, CO – Present Day
The only "prototype" that Matt would ever see just launched a missile at the Arizona State Capitol.
Matt Trakker sat in grave silence as images of violence and death in Phoenix gave way to a second speech from President Andrew Heyward. The silver-haired septuagenarian addressed the United States once again from the safety of the Oval Office.
"My fellow Americans," Heyward said in his casual tone, "we are facing a threat that we don't yet know the weakness of. But I assure you, the best minds in the country are working 'round the clock to discover a solution – to find a weakness, to penetrate the outer shells of these monsters and to bring to justice the drivers as well as the organizing power behind it all.
"Meanwhile, while we respect the decisions of the mayors of San Francisco and Phoenix to surrender to VENOM, we want to assure all Americans that the United States does not now, nor will we ever, negotiate with terrorists. We will vigorously combat this threat, no matter how many cities they attempt to conquer. No matter how many innocent lives they take. We will not back down, and I urge you to join with us, to support your Armed Forces.
"In the words of John Paul Jones, we will not give up the ship. And in the words of Tim Allen, we will never give up, never surrender."
Matt stifled a chuckle. The President isn't normally humorous. But this isn't the time to start. Or maybe it was the perfect time.
"Surrender isn't an option," the President repeated. "Your move, VENOM."
The transmission ceased, and the news stations all resumed coverage of the events in San Francisco and Phoenix.
Matt felt a tug on his heart. Maybe he could do something. He had the plans to make similar vehicles, and a powerful mask as well. Could he really just sit here and do nothing? Could he really let someone use his brother's brain children to conquer the entire United States?
Scott Trakker inhaled deeply. Here goes everything, he thought. One more breath, and he knocked on his father's bedroom door.
"Yes?" came the muffled voice from within.
"Dad, I want to talk to you," Scott said. "And so does someone else."
There was a long pause. Scott felt that he had lost. Dad was just ignoring him now, and there was no hope. But he wouldn't give up. He'd come to far. He prepared to knock again, but before he could Dad answered him.
"Come in."
Scott opened the door and walked cautiously inside. He was expecting a mess, an unmade bed, clothes scattered about, old food lying around on plates. Instead, the room was immaculate. Even in the throes of depression, Dad was still a neat freak who exerted atomistic control over his environment and himself.
Dad stared harshly at Scott, but when Nevada Rushmore came in after Scott, Dad's face lit up. "Chief," Dad said. He rose from the bed and crossed the room, palm extended to shake hands.
"That just won't do," said Nevada. He grabbed Dad in a tight embrace, and when he finally released Dad, Dad wobbled around trying to regain balance.
"I'm sorry," Dad began, but Nevada held up a hand for silence.
"Don't, Matt," Nevada said. "Just don't. Your brother was murdered, and the killer never found. I would be as distraught as you, whether that brother be my blood brother or you."
Dad contemplated this in silence, not sure what to say next.
Nevada continued. "I did not come for apologies. I came on business. I hear you have the means to combat this threat in your possession, yet you do nothing."
"Well..."
"No excuses. Your brother died for these masks and these transformers," Nevada scolded. "You bring shame to your brother's memory if you do not use what he left you to defeat that which the enemy stole!"
"I can't..."
"I'll not hear such nonsense, Matt. You are a Brave. A Hunter! You must track this unknown Wolf, and you must use the plans that your brother left."
Dad still seemed unsure.
"If nothing else, these men possess designs from the pen of your brother. One of them may be his murderer. If you won't do it for your country, if you won't do it to honor the memory of your brother, than do it for vengeance."
"Dammit, Nevada, you're right!" Dad leaped to his feet, fists clenched. He suddenly seemed to have purpose again. "I'm going after those bastards in San Francisco myself, and in the vehicle Andy designed specifically for me."
Scott pumped his fist in the air. "Go, Dad!"
"But I can't do it alone," Dad said.
Having regained his sense of purpose, Matt was finally able to push the depression down deeply enough that he could function again. He could be in Andy's workshop without breaking down. Control was his again.
The computer monitor on the desk was a split-screen Skype session. On the left was a slender man without a strand of hair on his head, but a bushy red beard covering his chin and extending a couple of inches from his chin. This was Alex Sector, master computer programmer and animal lover. Originally from London, Sector spoke with a clipped British accent that was morphing slightly to the American midwest flat nasal delivery.
On the right was an Oriental man, Bruce Sato. Sato was an engineer of the finest order, able to build devices out of common household items. In that vein, he was an Asian MacGuyver. Currently, Sato found work as an auto mechanic. He brought his own shop with his share of the video game fortune, just like Sector had franchised a Pet Supplies Plus.
Both men were looking over the blueprints that Matt had e-mailed them.
"Where did you get these?" Sector asked.
"It's what Andy was working on right before he died," Matt replied.
"Hmmm..." Sato said, rubbing his chin between his thumb and his index finger. "Hmmm... I can build it, but will the modifications you propose to the munitions damage the other vehicles?"
"Most likely. Is there a way to test it?"
"Of course," said Sector. "I can do my part, by the way."
"I just took that for granted, Alex," Matt said.
All three laughed heartily. After a moment, Nevada allowed himself a wry smile. He winked at Scott, as if to assure the young man his dad was back.
"I have an old Camaro in stock," Sato said. I'll have it ready to deploy by morning."
"I can write the necessary code by then, too," Sector assured Matt.
"Okay," said Matt. "We're gonna make this happen..."
SAN FRANCISCO, CA – May 29, 2012, 10:30 A.M.
In full tank mode, the black Ford Bronco known as Jackhammer pulled to a stop in front of the city's government center. On the flag poles above, the Stars and Stripes had been replaced with a blank, white flag. On the steps stood a very pissed Clint Broadway. He had failed his fair city. VENOM had forced his hand.
Dagger exited the vehicle, face obscured by the gunmetal gray of his mask, Torch. The face on it looked almost robotic. Dagger knew Broadway wouldn't double cross him because the mayor couldn't afford any more loss of life.
Above the proceedings, a dark blue chopper hovered. Dagger knew it well: the boss piloted that chopper, called Switchblade. Undoubtedly the boss came to personally accept Broadway's surrender, and sign the treaty naming VENOM supreme dictators of the city.
Switchblade descended slowly and landed in the square in front of the government center, behind Jackhammer. From the cockpit emerged a new masked man, the leader of the terrorist outfit VENOM. As in his TV appearance, he wore a blue military dress uniform that couldn't decide if he was an admiral or a general. He had the gold pads on his shoulders, with two braided loops under his right arm. A red sash across his chest bore old medals that appeared to read in German.
The leader of VENOM approached the government center as regally and dramatically as possible. Dagger knew the boss had a thing for theatrics, and would draw this out as long as possible.
When the leader arrived at the steps, the roar of a single car engine ended the silence. A red Chevy Camaro with flames on the side tore into the town square, Beau and Luke if they upgraded that old Charger.
The Camaro laid down a pattern of suppression fire, focused on Jackhammer. Dagger, Bruno Sheppard, and their leader dove for cover inside the black Bronco.
"What the hell?" the leader growled. "Get them!" he ordered, index finger pointing directly at Dagger. Another round of fire from the Camaro tore through Jackhammer. Sheppard gripped himself in a tight hug and exclaimed in pain.
"Uh, boss..." Sheppard said vacantly.
"What?" It wasn't a question, but a demand.
Sheppard opened his self-hug and showed bleeding bullet wounds.
"Fuck," the leader said. "Just, fuck. Dagger, get me to Switchblade. This clown is mine."
Without a word, Dagger punched the gas and converted Jackhammer back to Bronco mode as he sped toward the helicopter. The Camaro gave pursuit, but it was too late. The Bronco swung left, and the passenger door opened to spill the leader in front of the blue chopper.
The Bronco continued left, left, left – Dagger gripped the steering wheel hand-over-hand-over hand and alternated gas, brake, gas. He pulled the Bronco to face the Camaro. "Can you shoot?" he barked at Sheppard.
"I think so," Sheppard said.
"Then get ready!"
The leader, meanwhile, nestled into Switchblade's cockpit and the helicopter's rotors spun rapidly. It lifted easily into the air. The Camaro, however, took off the opposite way as Jackhammer sped into a clearing.
Jackhammer's transformation completed, the wounded Sheppard crawled into the turret and fired a steady percussive stream of bullets at the red Camaro. The Chevy sped in a wide arc, deftly avoiding the Bronco's barrage.
The Camaro's tailpipe swung down.
Switchblade opened fire, a volley of shots coming from the turret below the cockpit.
As stabilizing wings extended from the back of the Camaro, the red sports car braked and switched to reverse, backing away from the copter's great guns. Steadily, relentlessly, the bullets chewed the bricks and the concrete around the Camaro but they never hit their target.
The doors of the Camaro opened parallel to the ground and extended outward. The driver of the Camaro surged forward and was airborne a moment later.
"Dammit," the leader exclaimed, bringing a gloved fist onto the console. He pulled the copter higher into the air to avoid the screaming Camaro-jet as it flew underneath.
"Oh shit," Sheppard said. He aimed the turret up, and laid down more fire, careful to avoid the boss in Switchblade. Switchblade itself, meanwhile, was coming about and beginning a transformation of its own. The rotors, during a final spin, folded into one half-size blade. This lowered into the top of the copter as the lower stabilzing fin clicked 180 degrees around the end of the tail, landing upright.
Dagger slammed the gas as the Camaro-jet flew over top, loosing a new round of fire that penetrated Jackhammer's considerable armor and ripped a gash in the side of the vehicle.
Gasps from the crowd turned to cheers.
Switchblade, meanwhile, completed its conversion as an impressive set of wings, with missles readied underneath and guns on the ends, popped out of the chassis and the runners lifted into the body. A missile from each wing shot through the air, directly at the Camaro.
"Take this, insolent fool!" the leader growled.
The Camaro wasn't impressed. It tipped sideways and flew between the missiles and launched its own volley at Switchblade.
The blue jet curved up and out of the way.
Jackhammer, meanwhile, lost its brakes and power steering. "Brace yourself," Dagger shouted. The vehicle slammed into the stairs of the government center. Dagger and Sheppard exited the vehicle, and ran clear as the wreckage exploded, sending a flare skyward.
The remainder of the crowd cheered. Someone started to chant "U! S! A!" The crowd followed, pumping their fists in the air.
But it wasn't over yet,. The Camaro faced down the ominous blue jet, Switchblade. VENOM's leader launched two more missiles at the Camaro. The red car promptly dipped below the missiles and then back up when it was clear, then launched a barrage of gunfire. Switchblade pulled out of the line of fire, and then headed off as fast as possible.
The Camaro circled back to the ground, touching gently down on the road and converted from a jet back into an ordinary car. It sped away, neither wanting nor needing thanks.
The wounded Sheppard was a bloodied heap on the sidewalk not far from the wreckage of Jackhammer. A dozen policemen pointed guns at him, but he didn't care. Even in his weakened state, all he needed to do was use Magna-Beam. He concentrated on lifting the guns from the officers' hands.
Nothing.
He focused again.
Nothing.
"Awww, shit," he said. He kept his hands visible. Now it was his turn to surrender.
From Switchblade, the leader looked at the wreckage of Jackhammer, the arrest of Bruno Sheppard, and the loss of San Francisco. He looked at the speeding Camaro. "I don't know who you are," he hissed, "but I will have my revenge!"
That afternoon, for the first time in three days, President Andrew Heyward took the airwaves with good news.
"And so, I offer my fellow Americans hope. Hope that justice will be done. Hope that this terrorist threat will be abated. For tonight, an unknown person possessing technology similar to these terrorists used it to defeat them. Whoever you, all of America thanks you from the bottom of our hearts. We hope that you will continue the fight, together with our Armed Forces, and help end this terrorist threat once and for all.
"Good night, and God bless America."