The Origin of MASK

Chapter 5: Just For Kicks, Part 2

By Qweb and/or Jelsemium

"Dusty? Can I come in?"

Dusty set down his magazine in relief and welcomed Matt in. He was fighting sleep on the general principle that 6 p.m. was too early for anyone over the age of two to go to bed; but he needed more stimulation than a three-month-old copy of "Road and Track."

He got more stimulation than he'd counted on.

"Give up MASK! You can't be serious!"

"I'm afraid so, Dusty."

Adrenalin wiped away Dusty's drowsiness and pain. Wouldn't you know it, Dusty thought, just when things were looking up again. Well, the former stuntman and current pizza wrangler wasn't about to give up his chance to make a difference without a fight.

"But why? Just because I got thumped on the head?"

Matt didn't answer, but Dusty could see he was right.

"Shoot, Matt, my head can stand it. The first time I landed on it was when I was seven and showin' Mary Jane Harper how good I could climb the apple tree. Mama always said my head'd never bust, 'cause it was solid clear through."

His story wrung an unwilling smile from Matt. But the older man protested that it wasn't just Dusty he was thinking about, but all the potential MASK agents.

"I can't speak for anyone else, but I'd sure be sorry to lose this chance to help folks, Matt. I've been throwed by horses and kicked by mules and tossed outta speedin' cars; but never for as good a cause as this. To keep those Venom varmints from hurtin' innocent folks, I'd risk gettin' hit over the head, or even gettin' hit somewhere that'd hurt."

Dusty finished his plea and sank back into the pillows to observe the effect of his words on Trakker. Matt stared out the window, thinking over what his young friend had said. In worrying about the individuals he knew, Matt realized he'd forgotten about all the strangers, victims of Venom's plots and violence. Matt knew the reasons he'd started to form MASK were still valid; perhaps even more valid, since new reports of Venom activities flooded into the computer each day.

Dusty saw Matt begin to relax as he came to terms with the fact that his volunteers took their risks willingly and knew what they were getting into.

Dusty sighed with relief. He settled back into the pillows and closed his eyes. It had been a long day.

Matt made himself one promise, though. He would make it good and clear how dangerous Venom fighting would be. And he'd make advance arrangements for any MASK agent injured or, God forbid, killed in the line of duty.

Matt nodded to himself and turned to tell Dusty what he'd decided.

The young man was fast asleep. Burrowed into the covers, lines of pain starting to smooth out on his face, Dusty reminded Matt of Scott after a particularly long day.

Matt closed the shutters and plucked the magazine off the bed before it could fall.

"You win, cowboy," he said softly as he shut the door behind him.

Matt threw himself into a chair in the living room and ran his fingers through his hair. It was becoming a habitual gesture.

"He's asleep," Matt told an amused Alex.

"What did you decide?" Alex asked.

"That you and Dusty are right. MASK is too important to give up," he smiled wryly. "Dusty didn't know why I got upset over a little bump on the head."

Alex chuckled. "First night jitters, old chap. You'll be all right once the show starts."

"I guess."

Matt leaned back and closed his eyes, breathing deeply to clear his thoughts. Alex thought fondly that he looked a little like Scott after a tough day.

"I was thinking," Matt said without opening his eyes. "It might not be a bad idea to have a doctor on the team, just in case."

"Presuming we can find one crazy enough. All right, I'll get on it right after dinner. There's something else I want to check out anyway."

Alex opened his newspaper again when Matt didn't seem disposed to continue the conversation.

Scott broke their companionable silence. He and T-Bob burst into the room like a tribe of wild Apaches. The boy was excited. He flung himself at his laughing father, talking about his trip to the station and how Gloria had tried out "the way T-Bob handled" while waiting for the train. He retold some of the stories she had told him.

"Oh yeah," he said as he started to run down. "She told me to give you this."

Scott pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and then added some small change.

"What's this?"

"The change from the ticket, of course."

Alex looked at the money and nodded his head shortly as if confirming a diagnosis.

"Interesting woman that. Very interesting."

It had been a long day for Dusty. It turned out to be an even longer night.

Every hour, as regular as a cuckoo clock, Matt climbed the stairs and woke Dusty up to see if he was all right. The novelty of it wore thin very fast.

At 4 a.m., when Matt touched Dusty's shoulder, the cowboy rolled over with a moan and buried his head in the pillow.

"Remind me to never stay in this motel again. It's too dang noisy," he said in conversational tones.

Matt hesitated. That didn't sound very rational to him. "Dusty?"

"Awww, shoot, Matt. It's just a joke," the muffled voice replied. "See you in an hour."

Matt faded out of the room.

Two bed checks later, he found Dusty fully dressed, sitting on the side of the bed, pulling his boots on.

"Dusty! What are you doing up?"

"I've been in that dang bed 12 hours! And I didn't get any supper last night. I'm hungry!"

Matt laughed at the plaint. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Right as rain. Honest, Matt. Look, why don't you get some sleep? You've been up all night. I've only been up half of it."

When Alex entered the kitchen at 9:30, he found Scott watching Dusty flip flapjacks. The boy was endlessly fascinated by the disks, which danced through the air like flying saucers, yet always managed to find the skillfully located pan. If there was one thing Dusty could do almost as well drive, it was cook.

Scott contemplated trying to emulate the pancake tossing. It called for serious thought. Scott's pizza tossing experiment had been less than a success. You couldn't cook pizza dough when it was stuck to the ceiling. But pancakes had to be easier, didn't they?

Secure in the knowledge that his father would only paddle his bottom if his pants were on fire, Scott decided to try the experiment at the earliest opportunity.

"Where's Matt?" the red bearded man asked. "He's got an appointment at 10."

"I'll get him!" Scott volunteered.

"No, you eat your flapjacks before they get cold," Dusty said, as he set a plate in front of Alex and took off his apron. "I'll get him. It's my turn."

Alex watched as the Texan left the room. Dusty still moved with wary caution totally unlike his usual headlong flight, but his smile came readily and his eyes seemed clear.

Alex shook his head at himself.

Really, Sector. Next thing you'll be feeling his nose to see if it's cold. Dusty's not one of your Basset Hounds, you know, the pet shop owner thought, as he poured syrup on his pancakes.

Dusty peeked around Matt's door and found his fearless leader totally flaked out on the bed. With a childlike grin, Dusty shut the door again, then beat it within an inch of its life.

At the thunderous tattoo, Matt convulsed awake, leaping a good foot off the bed without ever getting his feet under him. Dusty poked his head around the door and grinned at the owlishly blinking eyes.

"Good mornin'," the cowboy said cheerfully. "It's almost 10. Alex says its time to get up."

"You know something, Dusty?" Matt said after a long pause to gather his scattered wits. "You were right. This hotel is too noisy."

"While you were playing nursemaid last night, I was doing some checking on our visitor yesterday," Alex told Matt later that day.

"Miss Baker? Why?"

"Because, judging by the story she and Dusty told, she'd make an excellent MASK agent."

Matt's instinctive, chivalrous protest died in his throat. It would be good to have at least one woman on the team. A woman had a different point of view and might notice things a man wouldn't. She certainly could do things a man couldn't, even if it was only following Vanessa Warfield into the ladies room. If you could find a woman who was qualified…

Matt rubbed the tip of his nose and grinned. Gloria Baker certainly seemed to be qualified.

"More serendipity, Alex?" he asked his smiling friend. "What'd you find out?"

"She's everything Dusty said, and more," Alex replied. "She's a champion racer, the top woman on the circuit and well up in the overall standings. She's won her share of races, considering she doesn't pursue the sport full time."

"How about her protection studio?"

"A list of her clients would make even your eyes open, Matthew. Some well-known diplomats and oil people have sent their families and their chauffeurs to learn evasive driving from her. She has a black belt in Kung Fu and she's won trophies in competition, but she only does exhibitions now. And she teaches basic self-defense techniques to everyone from scared housewives to professional wrestlers."

Alex grinned wryly, "The New York City Police Department told me that ever since her studio opened, there has been a significant decrease in the number of muggings in that neighborhood."

"I always liked a woman who keeps things neat around the house," Matt joked, then added more seriously, "And we know she's the sort who'll jump into trouble to help out a total stranger."

"And there's one other thing," Alex said, forcing a serious expression on his face.

"What's that?"

"She earned 37 merit badges as a Girl Scout."

Matt shot Alex a mock glare, then they both broke up.

"Definitely qualified," Matt finally said. "The question is, would she be interested?"

"There's only one way to find out, old chap."

The next day, Gloria Baker received a bouquet of flowers and an engraved invitation.

She didn't need to look at the card to know whom the spring bouquet was from. It looked like a gathering of wildflowers. It had Dusty's name written all over it. Gloria smiled as she read the card.

"Dear Gloria," it said. "If I could do this proper, this would be a whole meadow instead of a bunch of daisies. Thank you most kindly for everything. If you ever need a driver or a pizza, give me a call and I'll come a-running."

Still smiling, Gloria opened the fancy envelope, which had come in the mail. Her eyebrows disappeared in her long brown bangs.

"Dear Miss Baker," it said on sedate yet expensive, cream and brown stationery. "I never did get a chance to thank you properly for your help the other day. If you would consider having lunch with me Saturday, I could do it correctly. And I might have a business proposition that would interest you, as well. Perhaps we can even discuss what was in the box." And it was signed Matt Trakker. A P.S. contained a time and the name of a restaurant.

Matt stood up as she entered the private room in the exclusive restaurant. With a smiling bow, he presented her with a small bouquet of roses.

"I know it can't match Dusty's tribute, but allow me to offer my thanks as well," he said sincerely.

"How is Dusty?" she asked as he held her chair.

"Frisky as a colt who's been penned up too long," Matt assured her. "Do you like air shows?"

Gamely she kept up with the change of subject, saying she'd never been to one, but would like to.

"I've got tickets, but I'm afraid it will mean we'll have to rush our lunch. So, if you'd rather not … "

Something in Matt's voice told Gloria there was more to this show than entertainment. She told Matt she wouldn't miss it for the world and gave her order to the hovering waiter.

"Does this show have something to do with the mysterious box?" she asked.

"Only vaguely."

He paused and regarded her in silence for a long time. She cocked her head to the side and met his pale blue eyes.

"What's the matter? Did I put my lipstick on crooked?"

"No, I was just wondering whether you'd be interested in adding another job to your already impressive credentials. Have you heard about the museum raiders?"

She sighed at yet another apparently pointless change of subject, but it was Matt's party. As they ate, they discussed the museum robberies and Matt told of his unwitting involvement with the criminals. Gloria was fascinated by his story of how he, Alex and this unknown Bruce Sato used computers to discover a link between hundreds of hitherto unconnected crimes.

"This Miles Mayhem sounds like a genius," Gloria commented as they walked out to Matt's gaudy red and purple sports car.

Matt helped her through the gullwing doors, which reminded her of a DeLorean.

"In his own twisted way," he agreed. "He and his venomous band are too high powered for ordinary law enforcement methods. In their flying cars and diving motorcycles they can run rings around the police. We need a special force, equipped with equally high tech equipment, to fight them. And," he added as he started the car. "We need special people to join it."

Gloria gaped at him as she caught his drift.

"Are you saying you're starting such an organization? You really have gear to battle flying cars and helicopters that change into jet planes?"

Matt checked to see that she had fastened her seat belt. Since she was a racecar driver, it was an automatic habit she didn't care to break. He smiled mischievously and, apparently, changed the subject again.

"We'll never get to the air show on time at this rate," he said indicating the traffic. "Do you mind if we take an alternate route?"

A bit disgusted at his evasiveness, she waved her hands to say whatever he wanted. Matt pulled off the highway to a deserted side street.

"Hang on," he said.

He shoved the floor mounted stick shift forward hard and felt it catch in a new position. Gloria jumped as the gullwing doors flipped up, like gulls' wings. The slipstream from the open door tugged at her dress as the forward engine's purr was replaced by the roar of a jet from behind.

Then Gloria gasped as the car (car?) bolted forward and leaped into the air.

She held tight to the seat while the car soared up, over the rooftops, and settled down to a nice cruising altitude. Wide-eyed, she looked at Matt.

"Gloria Baker, meet Thunderhawk," he said.

"If it talks back to me, I'm bailing out, with or without a parachute," she warned.

Matt began to laugh and, after a few moments, Gloria joined in.

"You frightened me, Matt Trakker," she accused.

"Well, you asked if we had anything to match a flying car," he protested. "I just thought a demonstration would prove our sincerity."

Gloria remembered the red "ejection seat" button in Gator.

"Does Gator fly, too?"

"No, the hood of the jeep flips up and launches a powerboat."

Gloria pictured launching a boat into the middle of the street and was glad she hadn't pushed the button.

"Then Dusty must be part of this, what do you call it?"

"We call it MASK," Matt said. "And I'd rather not say about Dusty, if you don't mind. Until the group is fully formed, we'd just as soon preserve everyone's anonymity."

Gloria didn't press it. Sometimes a "no comment" is as good as a "yes."

"Why 'MASK'?"

"Check the box behind the seat."

Gloria peered back and saw the box. It was the box, the one she had helped rescue. The top was only loosely fastened.

Inside was a mask, a bright yellow mask with a thin eye slit across a pair of goggles and twin flexible hoses connecting the muzzle to the base of the mask. It looked like something an underwater welder might wear, if he had a thing for canary yellow.

Gloria remembered what Matt had said about the Venom masks, which shot flames, corrosive acid and stiletto-like darts, among other things.

"What does this mask do?"

"Well, I thought since you're into protection, you might like our primary protection mask. Aura throws out a forcefield that can block anything from radio waves to bullets, it just depends on how strong your willpower is. I suspect you'd be able to stop a tank," Matt teased.

Gloria stuck her tongue out at him, though, privately, she agreed.

"Then you're really asking me to join MASK?"

"Uh huh," Matt agreed absently as he looked for a place to land Thunderhawk near the fairgrounds.

Gloria stroked the mask proprietarily and smiled.

As Thunderhawk drove decorously into the fairgrounds, three small planes whizzed overhead.

The racers arrowed toward a distant radio tower, the first pole on the triangle-shaped course. Matt stood alongside Thunderhawk, his eyes on a gleaming green Cessna with yellow racing stripes that clung to the tail of a bigger white plane with red stripes. The Cessna was second as they approached the pole, but it took the turn tighter than the other planes jumping even with the white plane on the second leg of the race. The bigger plane gained air on the straightaway, but not enough. The Cessna cut close to the silo, flipping around on its wing as if it was a car taking a turn on two wheels.

The smaller plane had gained nearly half a mile at the turn, too much for the white racer. Though it strained its engine, it couldn't catch up with the Cessna, which roared flat out across the finish line.

"The winner of the second heat is Julio Lopez," the loudspeaker said in its tinny tones.

The racing planes turned at leisurely speed and came around to land — one, two, three — as the announcer continued:

"Don't go away, folks. We have one heat to go. Then the top three planes will race for the trophy."

The planes taxied to a waiting area not far from the parking lot. The Cessna, which had another flight to make, was halted near the edge of the field. The others continued into the display area where fair visitors could view standard planes, racers, helicopters, military jets, ultralights and a variety of experimental aircraft.

Matt and Gloria strolled through the display; but Matt kept his eye on the Cessna. He watched curiously, as Lopez climbed out and was met by an anxious looking man. Julio nodded, reached back into the plane for a sturdy doctor's bag and followed the man away. Matt wandered after with Gloria trailing him.

Gloria didn't try to break in on Matt's preoccupation. She had a lot to think about herself and was glad of the silence. She contented herself with studying a display of airplane related pins as she pondered the risks and rewards of joining MASK.

Matt was thinking about what Alex had told him about Dr. Julio Lopez.

"I may have found our crazy doctor," Alex had said. "First I got a list from the computer about doctors who matched our requirements — pilots, race car drivers, and other adventurous sorts. Then I asked around saying I was looking for someone with a spirit of adventure who would be willing to serve as medical officer on a photographic expedition down the Amazon."

Matt chuckled.

"Well, I could hardly say I wanted someone willing to battle the forces of evil dressed in a funny looking mask and costume, could I? They'd've thought I was looking for Batman," Alex argued.

"Unfortunately, I couldn't find a helicopter pilot among the candidates, so we still don't have anyone to fly Condor. But I think this Lopez chap might fill the bill in every other respect. Three different people at two hospitals told me to try him," Alex said.

"They said he was just crazy enough and just tired enough of the daily grind to want to take some time for himself. It seems he's been working six days a week, three of them organizing and opening a clinic in the Albuquerque barrio where he grew up. This has been going on for over two years. Now the clinic is on its feet with enough volunteers to run by itself and Lopez is getting stale. The chief of staff at one of the hospitals practically ordered me to take Lopez, shake him up, give him some excitement, then bring him back so he can get started on another do-gooding project. There didn't seem to be any doubt that Lopez would look for another charity type project. But his friends were afraid he'd burn himself out, if he didn't do something for himself first."

"So you think he'd be willing to do something for others that had a little excitement for himself?" Matt asked.

"It would probably be good for him. Anyway, he fits our requirements. He races airplanes. He's a good doctor. And he doesn't seem worried about taking time away from paying patients. All we can do is ask. And it so happens he'll be in the area this weekend."

"What's wrong, Fred?" Julio asked the winner of the first heat, who was sitting on the wing of his plane. "And don't tell me 'nothing'."

With a faint grin, Fred described his symptoms as his brother hovered nearby worriedly. Julio examined his friend.

"Well, I think you're not going to be any competition for me today," the Hispanic announced in the barrio-Spanish accent that even college, medical school and residency hadn't helped him lose.

He always shrugged away comment on it, knowing that his Spanish had a similarly identifiable accent. Some people pick up accents the way black pants pick up cat hair. Others just don't have any talent for languages. Julio was not among the talented.

It had once cost him a position at a prestigious hospital; but it didn't really matter any more. He had a reputation now. People who took him for stupid because of his accent soon learned better and it made the patients at his clinic feel more comfortable with him than with any of his colleagues.

Long-time acquaintances, like Fred, didn't even notice it any more. They certainly never thought his speech had any bearing on his talents as a doctor.

Julio told Fred he'd gotten too much sun and he'd better go lie down in the shade and let his brother fly the plane in the finals.

"But he always loses to you," Fred protested as he allowed himself to be led away to the nearby first aid trailer.

Julio put on his best evil Mexican bandito expression, abetted by his bristling black mustache.

"I know," he said, rubbing his hands together in mock glee.

Two men carrying briefcases came out of the fairground office and walked briskly toward the field. When they saw all the activity around Fred's plane, which should have been unguarded, they were dismayed. One hugged his briefcase, which contained half the day's receipts stolen from the office.

"We can't take it with all those people around. What do we do now?"

The other robber pointed at Julio's plane, door still open, keys glinting in the ignition.

"Then we'll take that one."

Julio turned around just in time to see his plane rumbling across the field, building speed. He chased after it.

"Hey! That's my plane!" he cried. At the same time he wondered why he thought the thieves would care. They certainly knew it wasn't their plane.

A security guard, his wrists red from squeezing out of his bonds, ran out of the building shouting, "Stop thief!"

In the back of his mind, the doctor wondered why humans resort to cliches in times of trouble. Maybe it's because it's too much effort to think of something new.

Julio stopped his futile race and stared after his beloved plane as it lifted into the air. It roared back over his head.

In a deliberate break with tradition, he put back his head, raised his fist to the sky and shouted, "Curse you Red Baron!"

In the next episode:

Julio also learns that car can fly.

The team comes together — literally.

And old-fashioned politeness exposes a secret.