"The Origin of MASK"
Chapter 23: War Games, Part 3
By Qweb and/or Jelsemium
With white knuckles on the console and tears in his eyes, Dusty stood as if frozen, staring at the monitor. He cursed himself for joining this battle against his friends, cursed himself for tossing that boulder into the middle of the battle, just as Alex was cursing himself for playing games with it.
Bruce raced Gator to Rhino's side and leaped up to the big truck's running board. Alex's head was bent forward, the goggles of his high-domed mask resting against the steering wheel.
"Alex?" Bruce said in concern, gripping his friend's shoulder.
"I couldn't hold it, Bruce," the older man said in a choked voice. "That interference … I couldn't hold it."
"I know. All our instruments were affected. It wasn't your fault."
"Perhaps there's still a chance," said Calhoun as he joined them. "Firecracker is pretty sturdy." But there was no real confidence in his voice. The boulder was immense.
Bruce was also doubtful. There was no trace of the pickup to be seen under the huge boulder. It must have been flattened. But Bruce knew they would have to look sometime.
He took a deep breath to prepare himself.
"Lifter, on," he said firmly if quietly.
Rings of force, only visible through the MASK visors, surrounded the boulder. It began to tremble.
The outside team gathered around Bruce and Alex in a supportive group. Inside, the MASK agents crowded around the monitors.
Jacques turned his head away, unable to look. His assaulted eyes were still playing tricks on him. There seemed to be a green glow at the back of the room.
Bruce raised the boulder into the air revealing — nothing!
The MASK agents gaped. There was no sign of any wreckage under the boulder — no Firecracker, no Buddy, nothing but desert sand.
For a moment it seemed like magic, totally beyond their stunned comprehension. Then Alex sat up straight.
"Penetrator!"
Bruce let the boulder drop with a thud.
"But if he used Penetrator to escape the boulder, where did he go?" the Japanese inventor asked.
"The bunker!" everyone except Alex chorused.
Alex said something else. "Jackrabbit, On!"
He leaped toward the open turret at the top of the mountain.
"Surprise!" said a cheerful voice at the back of the bunker.
The defenders, still stiff with shock, turned to see Firecracker parked at the back of the room next to the wall it had "penetrated" so casually. Thermal cannons and hypnoheadlights menaced the Mask agents. Buddy sat jauntily at the controls.
"You guys want to surrender now. I've got you covered," he said blandly.
"Mais non, mon ennemi," said a voice in his ear. "You can't cover what you can't see."
With a sinking heart, Buddy realized he only faced five MASK agents.
An invisible hand wrenched open Firecracker's door and yanked Buddy off the seat. Penetrator flew from the former intelligence agent's head and bounced across the floor.
But if Buddy couldn't see Jacques, he could feel the Canadian's arm reaching for a chokehold. With a sudden movement, Buddy twisted in a judo hold and threw Jacques away.
Matt grunted and collapsed under an invisible weight. The MASK leader fell back in a tangle of limbs and furniture while fierce French curses rolled in his ears like music.
Buddy turned swiftly to reach Firecracker's controls, but a strong hand caught his shoulder and threw him against the wall. Dusty followed up his assault, throwing his whole body weight against Buddy's chest, driving the air from his wheezing victim's lungs. Dusty's hands were at Buddy's throat. He picked up the slightly smaller man, holding him helpless with his greater weight. Buddy's feet dangled inches above the floor.
Buddy saw the cowboy's face was twisted in fury and remembered, with a thrill of real fear, that Dusty didn't ever fight for fun. He only fought for keeps.
Dusty's breath came in great sobs of rage. He remembered Buddy fiddling with his belt controls and knew Buddy had caused that interference himself. A person who he had considered his friend had deliberately let them all think he was dead, just for the sake of winning a stupid game. Betrayed and hurt, Dusty was as angry as he had ever been in his life.
"You did that on purpose!" Dusty accused. "You, low … down … sneakin' … skunk!"
At each word, Dusty banged Buddy's head against the wall.
Buddy could have escaped. Dusty was wide open for a dozen dirty tricks, and Buddy knew two dozen. But the ex-intelligence agent would have had to really hurt Dusty to get away. Buddy just couldn't do it, though his face was turning purple from strangulation.
It wasn't Dusty's strength that stopped him, or the red fury in the cowboy's face. It was the tear stains on Dusty's cheeks, the tears Dusty had shed on his "dead" friend's behalf, that shamed Buddy into taking whatever punishment the cowboy cared to give out.
Hondo leaped from the turret followed by Alex who floated down on Jackrabbit's anti-gravity field.
"Dusty! Stop it! You'll kill him!" Hondo shouted.
"Yeah, cowboy, don't kill him. The rest of us want a shot at him, too," Gloria said, anger tingeing her words.
But Dusty had already stopped. His normal gentle nature shuddered back into control.
He eased the pressure on Buddy's throat allowing the pump jockey to breathe again. But he still held Buddy against the wall. Dusty was sick at his own actions, yet still angry at Buddy.
With choking sorrow in his voice, he said, "Some 'buddy' you are."
He let the other man drop. Buddy fell to the floor at Alex's feet.
The Brit picked him up and brushed him off solicitously.
"Are you all right?" he asked as Dusty turned away to regain his lost control.
"I guess so," Buddy said shakily.
"Good," Alex said in sincere satisfaction, then he slammed his fist into Buddy's jaw.
Buddy hit the floor again.
Alex stalked out of the room rubbing his knuckles. Without a word he shoved past the members of the attacking team who crowded the doorway to see what was happening. When they saw Buddy alive their eyes kindled with an odd mixture of relief and anger.
Buddy looked at them all with bleary eyes. He fingered his sore chin, but didn't offer to rise. "Anyone else wanna take a shot?" he sighed wearily.
With his mask under his arm, Bruce, deliberately stepped over Buddy as if the fallen man was a mud puddle. The Japanese inventor crossed to where Matt sprawled on the floor. Bruce cocked his head to the side and regarded his fearless leader with eyes as bright and curious as a sparrow's. Matt returned his gaze blandly.
"Is something wrong, Matt?"
"No," Matt replied in a 'why do you ask' tone. "I've just got a lumberjack in my lap."
A spate of torrid French split the air. The heap of chairs next to Matt levered up, then subsided. Bruce's face lit with understanding.
Matt sighed.
"Bruce, remind me to program Mirage to understand French."
Bruce heard a French noise of disgust, which could only be spelled "tschah." It was followed by "Mirage, off."
Jacques shimmered into view. He lay prone across Matt's legs, his own leg firmly wedged in the tangle of chairs.
Jacques tugged off his purple mask and twisted his head to look at Matt.
"Pardon my French, mon ami," he said sheepishly.
When Hondo stepped over to Buddy, the gas station attendant thought he was really going to die. The huge schoolteacher effortlessly lifted Buddy to his feet and beyond. He held Buddy at almost precisely the same height Dusty had, but with considerably less effort, even though Hondo wasn't fueled by as much angry adrenalin. This isn't to say that the black man was exactly pleased with Buddy.
"Was Dusty right? Did you cause that interference?" the big man growled.
Buddy nodded meekly.
"I tapped into the main computer and jammed it with this," he said, pointing to the device at his belt.
"Just to win the war game!" Hondo said incredulously.
Buddy managed a shrug despite Hondo's grip on his shoulders.
Hondo shook him the way a terrier shakes a rat.
"Didn't you realize you'd scare us half to death with that stunt? Alex thought he'd killed you! Didn't you think about that? Or didn't you care?"
"I didn't think you'd care!" Buddy blurted, the harsh treatment fanning his rebellious nature.
Surprised by the answer, Hondo dropped Buddy to his feet. Buddy threw back his head and shoulders in a defiant attitude that was somewhat spoiled by his bedraggled appearance.
"You didn't think we'd care!" Hondo thundered.
"Do you think so little of us, then?" Calhoun asked softly.
"Mais non, mon ami," said Jacques as he rubbed his bruised ankle. "It is that he thinks so little of himself."
Buddy slumped against the wall, hands jammed in his pockets.
"You see a lot, Frenchy," he said sourly. "Maybe too much."
Jacques smiled a bit sadly. He was a college student from a family that scorned formal education and laughed at his bookishness.
"It is only that the inferiority complex and I are old friends," he replied wryly.
"Why, Buddy?" Gloria asked.
"Why not," Buddy answered belligerently, though he refused to look anyone in the face. "My own mother dumped me on the streets. I never fit in anywhere."
"Not even in the service?" asked Ace who had known Buddy longest.
"Especially not the service. You know how many friends an undercover cop has in the army? My whole job in the army was to make friends with guys and then fink on them. I didn't even fit in in the PNA. So now I guess I don't fit in here, either," he said in a voice grown plaintive and self-pitying. Buddy heard it too and made his tones tough. "So I'll always be a loner. I can live with that. I just thought I could teach you guys a lesson about the real world before I left."
Buddy started for the door.
"So who gave you permission to leave?" Matt said.
Buddy turned, a hope he couldn't suppress flaring in his hooded eyes.
"You're a fraud, Buddy Hawks. You're no more a loner than I am," Gloria said. "You just hadn't found the right group to hang around with. I don't want him to leave, Matt. I've just gotten him broken in," she said humorously. "Who will I beat up on if he leaves? And believe me, Buddy, I owe you some serious lumps for this stunt," she finished with a mock growl.
"What do you think, Dusty?" Matt asked softly.
"I think you can't expect a fella to know how to treat his friends if he never had any before. I guess he just needs educatin'," Dusty answered, his anger gone as fast as it had come. " 'Sides, I always was partial to jug-headed jackasses."
The cowboy winked at Buddy.
One by one, the MASK agents disclaimed any desire to get rid to the sneaky, underhanded, obnoxious pump jockey. And with each affectionate insult, Buddy's tension dropped away.
"But what about Alex?" Bruce asked after making his denial.
"Don't worry about Alex," Matt advised. "He doesn't get mad. He gets even. And he can't get even with Buddy if he leaves."
"Well, I don't let any of my patients go until they've paid their bills," Julio declared. "And knowing Buddy, that'll be the third Tuesday past Hell freezing over."
The doctor sat Buddy down and began to examine him for damage from his manhandling.
"What are you looking in my ears for?" Buddy complained. "I got hit on the back of my head."
"I just wanted to determine whether I could see through to the other side," Julio replied blandly. "But I couldn't. So I guess it must be solid bone up here."
He rapped on Buddy's aching skull. The others laughed.
"Just what did you meant to teach us with that crazy stunt?" Hondo asked.
"Well … everyone was taking it pretty lightly. But pretty soon we're going to be fighting Venom. It's going to be for keeps then. You guys gotta learn that when you fight, winning is the only thing that's important. Winning is surviving. You've got to do anything to win. You've got to use every dirty trick in the book," the former intelligence agent said earnestly.
"But not against your friends," Dusty said softly.
When Matt found Alex huddled over his beloved computers, the older man brushed off his explanations as if he was too busy to bother worrying about Buddy's juvenile tricks.
Matt was worried by the single-minded, almost feverish, way Alex pursued his computerized investigation. There were new lines around Alex's eyes, tight lines that betrayed worried thoughts and sleepless nights. Surely all the tension couldn't have been caused by Buddy's thoughtlessness, but the spy's prank had certainly aggravated things.
Alex had continued to make an effort to join in the growing MASK camaraderie; yet, Matt had become more and more convinced that Alex's joking was an effort. It was almost as if Alex, like Buddy, had something to prove, Matt thought. But Alex insisted he was fine, finally turning on Matt when the younger man continued to ask him if he was all right.
"Would you please stop pestering me so I can get this work done? I really think I'm onto something here," he said with a genuine excitement that relieved a few of Matt's worries. "Buddy's childish behavior isn't important; but I have some news that is. The Museum Raiders have struck again. But now I know what they're after!"
"I feel like Lt. Uhura," Gloria complained.
Hands on her hips, she faced Matt in the underground meeting room in front of the assembled MASK agents. Matt had called everyone together to hear what Alex had discovered, but before the computer expert arrived, Gloria had decided to air her half-serious grievance.
She had felt unease in the room, the result, she suspected, of Buddy's shocking trick. The MASK agents, who were, after all, little more than strangers, no longer felt comfortable with each other. Their esprit de corps had been crushed by a boulder. Judging by the downcast expression on the pump jockey's face, Buddy believed the same thing. To lighten things up, Gloria resorted to an old political trick — she attacked the boss.
"I think it's shameful," she said in carefully exaggerated annoyance. "I'm a racecar driver, you know, Mr. Trakker. So how come I'm not driving? How come I'm riding with other people or sitting behind a console opening hailing frequencies?"
"I don't know what you're complaining about," said Ace, an old hand when it came to encouraging team spirit. "I don't even have a mask yet."
Matt held up his hand to stem the laughter as Julio asked why Ace would want to cover up his pretty face.
"Easy guys," he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We're doing the best we can. But with Venom suspicious, we've had to move even more quietly and make all the components ourselves."
Buddy chimed in from his slouched, feet up position at the table.
"Yeah, I've been working my fingers to the bone getting your wheeled submarine ready, Gloria. Have a heart."
Everyone laughed at the idea of laid back Buddy overworking himself. Buddy made a face them but was actually pleased at himself for earning the laugh.
"Hey, I was one of the first MASK recruits, you know," he said in deeply wounded tones. "Do you see me complaining because I have to ride shotgun with Hondo while a newbie like Brad's got his own cycle?"
Brad chuckled.
"You don't like to drive because it's too much like work," the rock musician said. "But if anyone feels they've got a better claim to Condor, I'm willing to wait my turn."
Brad made the offer without hesitation, because he knew he was the only helicopter pilot in the crowd, and because Condor had such a bad reputation.
"No thanks, pard. I'll stick to flyin' my Gator," the stuntman said. "I been throwed enough by that vulture of yours."
"That's 'Condor,' pard," Brad said with mock menace.
"Ain't that what a condor is? An overgrowed vulture?" Dusty asked innocently.
"Fine talk from someone who drives an old 'croc,' " Brad punned.
Alex's entrance cut short what bid fair to be an epic punning contest. "If you don't mind postponing this childishness, we have business to conduct."
His sour voice slammed the lid on the youthful high spirits. Matt cursed under his breath.
Alex crossed the room to the main screen. Behind his back, the MASK agents exchanged startled looks. That really wasn't like the Brit, who had a reputation as a terrible punster himself.
Gloria made her eyes wide and pursed her lips in a silent "ooh!" Buddy, startled, thumped down to a decorous sitting position, certain Alex's bad temper was his fault. Julio studied Alex's stiffly held back with clinical interest. Dusty watched with pained puzzlement. Calhoun and Hondo exchanged glances of eyebrow-raised speculation. Matt frowned after his old friend, then turned to Bruce who shrugged a lack of comprehension.
The room was alive with silent comment, but when Alex turned to face them, the MASK corps sat as still and attentive as children facing the meanest teacher in school.
"I believe I have discovered what Venom was after in their museum raids," Alex said.
The room buzzed with interest.
"Only I may have discovered it too late."
Silence fell again.
"The museum raiders struck again, this time in Germany," Alex said. "Within hours of the theft, showing their typical efficiency, the museum published a complete list of everything taken by Venom, including a Thermos of coffee and half a tuna fish sandwich Rax apparently took a fancy to.
"There was one thing on the list that sounded familiar, part of a larger work that had been broken up and sold piecemeal. I checked and found that sections of this work, painted on seven wooden panels, had been reported stolen at two of the other six museums hit. When I spoke to representatives at the other four, I found that they had also owned panels and they had been stolen in the museum raids."
"Why wasn't this common factor noticed earlier?" Matt asked.
"The painting is really a minor work, of more historical interest than artistic. Most of the museums had the panels in storage, not on display. One hadn't even realized the panel was missing until I specifically asked about it," Alex said. "But now all seven panels are in the hands of Venom. Knowing Miles Mayhem, I don't believe this is a coincidence."
"Neither do I," Matt mused. "Does this seven-part painting have a name?"
"It's known as the Royal Triptych, though that's actually a misnomer."
Dusty scratched the top of his head, which Alex's sentence had gone over.
"A 'tripped' what, Alex? I think I stumbled over that one."
Alex sighed.
"A triptych, Dusty, is a painting in three panels which are often hinged together so the work can be folded shut. They generally feature religious themes and are most often used as altar pieces."
"If this thing has seven pieces, why is it called a triptych?" Hondo inquired.
"It is best known from the three center pieces, which were kept together for many years by a cadet branch of the House of Romanoff until the impoverished noble family had to break it up and sell the separate wooden panels, as they had sold the outer wings earlier. Perhaps if I describe the triptych's history, you'll understand," Alex said.
"The work was painted by a cousin of the Russian royal family, Duke Gregor Andreivitch. The duke was known as an excellent technical painter with limited creativity and no style whatsoever. He was a dilettante, spending his time on travel and art. He was best known for wonderfully detailed, extremely accurate, almost photographic paintings of the exotic foreign lands he visited. He also specialized in very unpopular portraits of his noble relatives."
"Unpopular?" Bruce asked.
"He painted people as they were, warts and all," Alex explained.
"That would make you unpopular," Gloria said.
"In any case, the triptych was his most ambitious project — a seven-panel affair showing the Madonna and child, who look, not surprisingly, exactly like his own wife and infant son. The background shows a spring forest scene with a Russian Orthodox style chapel set back against a cliff, and animals and birds frolicking around a small lake. It's rather cleverly done, actually, since each panel is a complete work by itself, yet together they make an impressive, if not inspired, panorama."
"If they're not valuable, why would Mayhem want them?" Buddy asked.
"Ah, this is where things get interesting," Alex said, his eyes lighting with enthusiasm. His relaxation also signaled an easing of tension in the room. "You see there's a legend involved with the painting."
The computer beeped at Alex. He turned to fiddle with some dials, bringing up a series of seven images on the screen.
"The museums all kept photographic records of the panels. I was waiting to receive a transmission of one of them before I showed you the triptych."
Seven color photos on the big screen showed the triptych in all its glory for the first time in 50 years. The MASK agents studied the background and the homely brick chapel building. The building was stately in an ugly sort of way. In the center of its basically flat roof was a small wooden dome topped by a spire. It looked very Russian, but rather out of place, as if the dome had been added as an afterthought. It was an eye-catching structure, but it couldn't hold their attention. Their eyes were drawn repeatedly to the Madonna, and the bejeweled shawl that covered her head and draped around her shoulders. It was, Alex assured them, an authentic and priceless garment that had been owned by the duke's wife — and which disappeared from sight when the painting was finished.
"The story says that the series of paintings is a clue to where Andreivitch hid the shawl as insurance against the revolution he felt was coming. But Andreivitch was killed in one of the first attacks. His wife fled to Venice where the triptych had been stored, but died soon after from a fever picked up on her arduous flight. Her children never deciphered the painting's clue, if, indeed, it held one. But they kept the panels as long as they could, trying to find the church depicted on the triptych. But to no avail. No one has ever found that jeweled shawl."
"That's just the sort of treasure hunt Mayhem loves," Matt said. "But he wouldn't have gone after the panels unless he had discovered something new, some trace of the shawl."
"I don't know what it could be," Alex confessed. "Andreivitch's family finally had to give up. They had to sell the panels, one at a time, just to survive. Treasure hunters, including the Soviet government, have scoured the Russian countryside for that chapel, but no trace of it has ever been found. Some people say it must have been destroyed in the revolution. Others say for once Andreivitch painted from his imagination, not from life. But all we know for certain is that church does not exist anywhere in Russia."
"That's because it's in Tennessee," Calhoun said.
Next episode:
Stage fright and other complexes.
A goal identified
And a mission launched.