Chapter Eleven
Clark streaked across the skies, the red cape of his uniform billowing against his back as he flew as fast as he could towards the ruptured Russian pipelines.
The news report he'd seen at the Daily Planet hadn't been specific about the location of the ruptures beyond mentioning Siberia, and Siberia just happened to make up seventy-seven percent of Russia's territory; amounting to just over 13 million square kilometres. Or put another way, he'd be facing having to scan an area of over 5 million square miles.
Not really something he wanted to waste time doing when lives could be at stake--even with super-powers.
Fortunately, for Clark, he was familiar with the general location of the Russian Federation's gas fields, due partly to his profession and to his on-going interest, since childhood, in collecting astronomy and world atlases.
Even though he was travelling at high velocities he was aware of crossing timelines and moving through differing climate systems, though the changes in temperature had no effect on him directly; from the early evening humidity of Metropolis' late spring to the frosty early morning air of Russia's subarctic tundra.
Clark flew with renewed determination as he approached the Arctic Circle and homed in on the most abundant source of natural gas in Russia, the western Siberian district of Yamalia.
The district's major gas fields were dotted above the Arctic Circle in a series of pipes that lay above and under ground, stretching out, like a human network of veins, for thousands of miles, bringing fuel to millions of homes and businesses throughout east and western Europe and as far south as Turkey.
He began a vectored search from the air, his eyes and ears on alert for the smallest anomaly. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for, the overpowering smell of gas and burning steel assaulting his senses within moments of arriving at the gas fields.
Sighting the burning structures he flew further west for another sixty miles, attempting to appraise the extent of the damage as he drew closer.
Clark could see that a ground valve and its supporting metal structure were on fire, and a few feet beyond it lay a line of blazing pipes, supported by concrete decks, one section blown apart, golden flames licking out in every direction while its black, toxic smoke spiralled into the formerly, clear, frozen air.
The hard, ice-packed earth that lay beneath the pipes and around the safety valve were blackened and burned, steam appearing to rise from the ground as if from the end of a cigarette: blue smoke rising in whorls and plumes to join their more obviously toxic cousins.
Clark headed towards the valve.
Ground valves were used as safety measures and were situated at frequent intervals a few miles along each pipeline, operating like gateways. They allowed the gas to flow freely, and were used to stop gas flow along certain sections of pipe, should maintenance of the pipe or section be required.
As his feet touched the scorched earth an explosion ripped through the burning head of the heavy, steel, valve. The force of the explosion sent a damaged chunk of hot, flaming metal flying at Clark's head. Instinctively his hands went up to protect himself, but even he wasn't quick enough; the force of the impact knocking him off his feet and sending him sprawling along the barren ice-packed ground.
Turning over and rubbing his jaw to remove the sting, Clark was quickly back on his feet and collecting the blown off head of the valve, which had landed a few hundred feet away from him. Considering the impact of the blast and where it had landed, the valve appeared to be in workable condition--or it would be, once he used his heat-vision on it.
Making his way back to the raging valve and the sound of hissing and groaning pipes, he took a long, deep breath and began blowing firmly and steadily onto the ruptured control device, using his ability to generate air below freezing point.
For several minutes he blew, having to take pause to re-fill his lungs once, while he was at it. Eventually the fire damped down enough for Clark to weld the head of the regulator tap back into place with his heat-vision and turn off the gas supply.
He took a step back to admire his smouldering handy-work, gazing left and right along the line of pipes, looking for further outbreaks of fire and ensuring that what had been raging before was now out, or at the very least, under control. Without any further accelerant to aid them, what small fires still raged would burn them selves out.
Clark blew out a relieved breath. He'd assumed, from the, admittedly brief, news report, that he'd be facing miles of burning pipe with the possibility of towns and tiny, rural communities in danger. His gaze swept over the barren landscape once more.
This was it? This was the "possible ecological disaster"?
Salekhard, the administrative centre for Yamalia--believed to be the only town in the world located right on the Polar circle--was only 300 miles south of this isolated gas field. The land, though an icy tundra with sparse vegetation, was flat, more an icy marshland than anything. Surely it wouldn't take special emergency crews more than a few hours, probably less, to get here and make the area safe.
Yet there was no sign of anyone: no gas workers; field experts; fire crews; nothing.
Clark's eyes sought out the regulator valve in the opposite direction, he spotted it easily as it glinted in the early morning sun. Flying to it in moments, he checked it thoroughly before zipping back to the rupture site. It was undamaged and the valve had been moved to its stop position.
A vision of Lois popped into his head: her lips were pursed and she had an eyebrow arched in suspicion. Clark nodded in agreement.
He began examining the section of damaged pipe where it appeared that the rupture had emanated from and the surrounding debris field. Bits of metal pipe work lay scattered across the still smouldering earth, patches of ice turning to brown pools of liquid next to the ground where it wasn't scorched directly.
The source of the blast appeared to be where a large section of pipe was now missing, blown to bits from some sort of gas-pressure leak perhaps. He ran his hands over the serrated edges of the warm, twisted metal and scanned deeply, looking for a blast pattern.
He should have found that an outward explosion had caused the damage: a build up of gas, ignited by internal corrosion of the pipes or something similar. He didn't.
Studying the metal closely he found that the blast pattern radiated inwards instead of out.
He scanned the blast's debris field and spotted the remnants of a small explosive device.
Sabotage.
But why would anyone go to the trouble of sabotaging one, remote gas pipeline? The damage, as far as he could tell, was going to be minimal, even if he hadn't gotten here as soon as he had.
It made no sense.
Turning slowly he gazed out across the horizon and into the distance, wondering what it was he was missing.
A sharp pain suddenly lanced through his body and he screamed out, hands clutching at his chest.
He looked down in shock; between his fingers and over the "S" shield of his costume lay a group of, what appeared to be, animal darts.
Panting out in laboured breaths, Clark pulled the darts from his body with shaking hands. Staggering back several steps he tried to see where his attacker had come from.
He felt another set of darts penetrate his skin at the neck. As he raised his hand to remove them, another set of penetrative needles assaulted his exposed ribs; and in quick succession his body was hit with a series of these grouped, poison darts.
Clark's agonised cry echoed throughout the icy tundra as he fell to his knees, the pain excruciating. He could feel the Kryptonite--it had to be--working its way through him like, what it must feel to experience, razor-sharp knives attached to rusty, barnacled probes, which in turn were attached to crude lasers; and all of them hitting their mark.
It registered, in some part of his brain that wasn't screaming that he's been set up. This entire pipe rupture story was a trap for Superman and he didn't see it coming, didn't suspect a thing.
Not even a little bit.
He felt himself losing consciousness and slipping away, his body too weak to fight the toxins. His blood felt like it was on fire; it hurt to breathe, to move; everything was fading from view a little at a time. Clark fought it. The front of his body was peppered with darts, but he gritted his teeth and fought the sharp spasms of pain that jolted down his neck and spine, pulling himself to his knees he looked up.
Men dressed in black combat garb were emerging from small, earth-covered bunkers hidden underground.
Lead lined, Clark grimly surmised.
The dozen or so men now surrounding Superman all had their weapons raised. They carried Gatlin style hand guns, fitted with laser sights for accuracy and attached with long ribbons of ammo that expelled Kryptonite loaded darts from each fast rotating chamber rapidly and forcefully--the better to deliver their payload of poison into a Superman's system.
Someone nearby was clapping, and Clark no longer had the strength to move his head in any direction to see where it was coming from. His head was hung down onto his chest and he swayed under the weight of his own body.
He felt rather than saw a booted foot connect with his left shoulder, pushing him backwards onto the scorched earth. His eyes were barely open, but he could still see the sky, so clear, so blue--the sun glinting off the polished metal surfaces of the undamaged pipelines.
A blob in a white, fur-lined parker crashed into his view, it wore a smirk and a dark chuckle. Crouching down, the menace in white whispered into his captive's ear.
"Did you really think I'd forgotten who you were? And what you are?"
"Lex." It came out sounding like a scratchy wheeze: a dying man's deathbed revelation.
Lex Luthor heard it though, as he watched the costumed freak slip into unconsciousness.
"Call in the air crew and load him up," Lex called out to his team, straightening to stand. "There's to be no trace that any of us where ever here, and that includes dear old Supes, understand?" he demanded, resting a foot in triumph on his foe's helpless body.
A team member, dressed head to toe in black stepped forward. "Yes, sir, we understand; Ms. Carmichael briefed us thoroughly. The clean-up crew should be here by the time our air support arrives, sir."
"Good. Very good," he said to himself. "Phase three: complete."
Lex couldn't help but gloat over the supine figure of the world's greatest superhero.
"You're going to know the meaning of suffering, Superman," Lex declared, his voice tight with whispered hate. "You're going to know the meaning of betrayal--" A muscle in his jaw twitched. " … Clark."
… To be continued …
Chapter twelve will be posted here soon; so don't forget to check back.
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